I Through My Window See
by T-R-Us
Summary: AU. When Castiel remains human after Lucifer is defeated, the Winchesters get him set up in his own apartment – and then promptly leave him there, hoping he'll start a new, normal life.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **I Through My Window See  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>Dean/Castiel **  
>Warnings:<strong> Swearing, Mild Violence  
><strong>Summary: <strong>AU. When Castiel remains human after Lucifer is defeated, the Winchesters get him set up in his own apartment – and then promptly leave him there, hoping he'll start a new, normal life.

Written for the 2011 Dean/Castiel Big Bang.

**Author's Note: **There are three gorgeous, talented amazing people to whom I owe my first born children (whether they want them or not). In no particular order: **cugami**, you beautiful, amazing artist, you, thank you so much for the time you put into this **cymbalism219**, my beloved beta who tore through this monstrosity in record time and gave it most (if not all) of its much needed direction, I will never, ever be able to thank you enough. And of course, the darling **9_of_Clubs **who patiently sat through at least a solid 24 hours of me bitching and who held my hand through the entire process. Love you all!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

"We got a hunt in Missouri," are the first words that Dean says upon letting himself and Sam into the tiny two-room apartment that Castiel spent the night in. The words hold only a breath of hesitation, a slight inhale somewhere in the middle of the sentence like he hasn't quite thought it through all the way. It's hardly an introduction befitting the arrival of someone who remained at the motel down the street, but Castiel accepts the potential urgency of the situation. He still doesn't quite understand the necessity for separate lodgings, however. He could have just as easily stayed with the Winchesters as they could have slept here with him, but Dean's confusing argument for the separation was at least adamant enough for Castiel to remain in the lonely apartment when they departed for the evening.

He had expected their return in the morning, but not like this. Not with bags in hand and car keys dangling from loose fingers. Dean drops his own duffel to the ground with a loud "thump" that makes the former angel startle.

"You have Bobby's number in your phone, right?"

There are fewer numbers in Castiel's cell phone than there are fingers on his left hand and it takes no consideration at all to nod in answer to Dean's brusque question. He has had the older hunter's number for months, though no need, as of yet, to call him.

The older Winchester nods and there's a strange look in his eyes as he does, one that Castiel can't quite comprehend, though he _does _recognize the expression on Sam's face. The younger of the two appears to be upset about something, guilty even. Certainly, Sam has mistakes to atone for, but with the apocalypse so recently averted, Castiel had expected more in the way of jubilation.

It's a strange position to be in, standing just inside the doorway of the little apartment, facing the two brothers as though welcoming them into his own home. If Castiel does indeed still have a home, this most certainly is not it. "Are we leaving now?"

Sam's face, if possible, darkens further and there's a sudden tick in Dean's jaw.

An all-too-human wave of nausea takes control for a moment and Castiel is hard-pressed not to stumble back at the realization of what they are doing. This apartment, the trip to the grocery store down the street, the new fake ID and the stolen credit card; all of it is beginning to add up much more clearly in his head and Castiel does not like the sum total. Not just a place to stay for the night, not just supplies for the road ahead, not just preparation for another hunt.

"Are – " It's Castiel's turn to hesitate, voice breaking midway through his words, " – _you _leaving now?"

"Yeah," Dean answers quickly. There's no sign of apology in his voice, no indication of reluctance or commiseration, just that same business-like demeanour he's been using on Castiel all week, since the day they forced Lucifer back into the pit and the night that followed. "Gotta deal with this head-hacking Jason Voorhees thing." He shoulders his bag once more with a shrug, "Don't know how long it's going to take us, so don't wait around or anything."

The nausea Castiel is feeling only rises higher. "Where would I go?"

Sam looks like he wants to say something and though Castiel's formerly angelic gaze has been reduced to a diminished human one, he notices the younger Winchester's reluctance. Sympathy. _Pity_.

Perhaps most damning of all is the way that Dean notices too, and sends his brother out to the Impala.

Sam has the decency to murmur a soft, "See you, Cas," before disappearing. Leaving Castiel alone with Dean.

"Will I?" Castiel replies after Sam is too far away to hear. He's not asking Sam, though, he's asking _Dean_.

The hunter turns back towards him with a confused glance from where he's been watching his brother's retreating figure. "Will you what?"

"Will I see you?"

Dean lets out a chuckle that even Castiel can recognize as not being entirely genuine. "Of course you will, Cas. We'll be around." There's a funny, pinched quality to his voice that Castiel interprets as amusement, though he's not sure why Dean would be amused at this particular moment. "Use that credit card, eat three times a day, and call Bobby if any shit goes down, okay?"

Humanity. Summed up in three, simple actions.

"Okay, Cas?"

He nods, nothing more than a sharp, downwards jerk of his chin. "Yes, Dean."

* * *

><p>The tiny bedroom rattles with the force of each rumbling blast of thunder. The intensity of the vibrations seems to shake the building's very foundations, causing the bed to quake and shiver as though at risk of coming apart in pieces completely. The covers, still crisp with freshly purchased newness despite not having seen the inside of a store in five months, had been tucked carefully around Castiel when he first lay down to sleep, but are now bunched around him in a pool of fabric.<p>

Dean's face is buried against his neck, the hunter's stubble rough against Castiel's skin. The angel – _former _angel – lies safe in the circle of the man's arms as the storm outside continues, unnoticed by the pair in bed.

"Dean," Castiel begins, arching his neck away from the soft press of Dean's lips, twisting so that he's looking at the hunter's face. "Where are you?"

The man's response is so earnest, so full of tenderness that Castiel's heart aches. "I'm right here."

"No, you're – " another loud crash of thunder rumbles through the room as Castiel sits up in bed suddenly, alone, " – not." The last word falls from his lips almost unbidden, a continuation of the dream brought into painful fruition. The swath of blankets dwarf him in the too-big, too-empty bed, mercifully solid beneath him as he grapples with understanding. Dreams – sleep, even – are a new concept to him. Nightmares as well and Castiel isn't sure which the slew of night-time visions he's been having qualify as.

They always hint at that tender relationship he's been hoping for from the older Winchester, the only element of humanity he's _ever_wanted. But they also always end with the realization that Dean is gone.

Not just gone, though. That he's _left_. Willingly.

He's never been farther from the reciprocation of his feelings for Dean, feelings he'd only just started to realize he even had when Dean decided to leave him.

A violent, wild rumble of thunder rolls through the apartment, accompanied by a bright flash of lightning, as though the storm is so close that the lightning itself is mere afterthought. Castiel wishes he could attribute the dream to the return of yesterday's storm sometime during the night, but he's been having them too frequently for this to be true.

His hands tremble as he grips the sheets, attempting to smooth them out over his legs. He manages to cajole the folds of fabric into a more comfortable arrangement, pulling them up over the thin t-shirt he's wearing to clutch more fully around himself. The layer of blanket serves as a kind of talisman, cocooning him in its protective span.

The soft wool is nothing like the comforting embrace of his wings.  
>But he doesn't have those anymore.<p>

No Dean, no Grace, nothing. Another flash of lightning illuminates the bareness of the room as though to punctuate this particular thought. Just the bed, a water-stained dresser and a rickety bedside table, teetering on its uneven legs. Not a shred of anything personal to be found, nothing to say who the room's owner is. Which, to Castiel, seems fitting. Even he doesn't know who is or, more importantly, who he is _supposed_to be anymore.

He has done the opposite of what Dean had asked of him, whether in rebellion or lack of anything better to do, even Castiel's unsure. He's beginning to understand his brother Gabriel's dilemma better here in this squalorous apartment than he ever has before, despite the archangel's penchant for opulence being such a direct contradiction to Castiel's new home. His family, if he is even still entitled to consider them as such, is gone. His head silent, sunny memories of Heaven relegated to remain merely memories.

Although the question had never occurred to him before, he seriously doubts that fallen angels ever see past the Gates again once their mortal selves have died.

The thought leads him to wonder where Michael and Lucifer are now, dead by their mischievous younger brother's hand. Gabriel had managed to fake his own death, performing yet another disappearing act, and though his trickery and fratricide had assisted greatly in the aversion of the apocalypse, it hadn't been soon enough to prevent one falling angel from waking up powerless in hospital. For all intents and purposes, completely human.

The storm outside continues, light plinks of rain against the windows growing into heavier thuds, the rain blowing sideways in the wind. Patterns of thunder and lighting, forked blasts of heat and light working in tandem with the low rumbles continue, escalating, a dance set in motion by his Father and nature.

Castiel thinks longingly of his little Nokia phone, sitting uncharged on the table in the next room. Plugging the phone in to an electrical current wasn't something he had needed to do when he still had his Grace, wasn't something he ever thought about. He doesn't even have the appropriate cable to do so now, no way of calling Dean or Sam or Bobby, no way of finding out where they are.

It's possible that one or all of them might have perished. Five months is a long time to go without contact, but Castiel is fairly certain that he would simply _know_if Dean were dead.

It's with this thought and the echoes of the storm that he falls asleep once more, part of him hoping that morning will bring with it even the faintest bit of brightness, something to break up the monotony that is spending each day simply _waiting_.

It doesn't.

Dawn brings, instead, more thunder clouds, though the storm itself stopped sometime during the night. It's just as overcast inside the apartment as it is outside when Castiel disentangles himself from the blankets that have somehow twisted into a nest of fabric once more. Though he still goes to sleep with the same stiltedness of any angel unused to the need for a full night's rest, it seems that in sleep he's as vulnerably mobile as any human.

The scuzz of cool carpet against his bare feet is a sensation he scarcely notices as he slowly slides out of bed, rising. He folds the sheets back into place, tucking any trailing edges under the mattress. The mechanical nature of the process leaves his head open for thoughts and Castiel does his best to keep his mind clear and empty. Not-thinking is by far preferable to the bevy of panic that's sure to besiege him should he let the floodgates fall. After five months, he's established a routine that, if not entirely desirable, burns through each day.

Fixing the mussed sheets uses up exactly two minutes, which leaves him only twelve hours and fifty-eight minutes to go until he can pull them back once more and sleep through the end of another day without Dean.

Being without Dean means being without purpose.

Changing out of his sleepwear and into Jimmy Novak's familiar, mussed suit eats up an additional six and a half minutes. The tie goes limply around his neck, sometimes facing the right way 'round, but that only by fluke of the moment. More often than not it's flipped backwards. The entire ensemble has begun to give off an unfortunate odor, something he had never needed to contend with in his prior two years of wearing it.

It needs to be washed. He doesn't particularly care.

Breakfast is for the sake of sustenance only, in accordance with Dean's second rule, though Castiel's not entirely certain when he began to think of them as _rules_. During one of the days leading up to their departure, Sam suggested eating grapefruit for this particular meal and while he usually has three or four of the fruits in the otherwise mostly empty refrigerator, he's down to his last grapefruit quarter. And he takes no especial joy in eating it.

Spending the rest of the morning watching the world go by through his fourth floor window is much more difficult when the distance is compounded with his weaker, no longer angelic eyes.

Sitting still for long periods of time is harder, too. His mortal body can't last for more than twenty minutes without twitching or some discomfort cropping up. The first time one of his legs had gone numb from lack of movement was an alarming experience. If his cell phone had been working, he would have called Dean. As he would have the first time the hunger pains started or the kitchen taps had stopped working.

It's been a week since a mechanical issue of either his body or surroundings has presented itself that would make him consider asking Dean for help. Although there's a fraction of pride to be felt in this, Castiel doesn't intend to adapt. He doesn't want to be human, he has no interest in learning how to cook or change a fuse. The fact that he _is_learning how to exist without his Grace is more upsetting than joyful.

So he waits and he prays.

Waits for a sign, for death, for enlightenment, for a black Impala to pull up in the street out front.

The following night, a cold snap descends on Sioux Falls and Castiel stares at the thermostat for a solid ten minutes before attempting to twist one of the dials in a favorable direction. The hiss-pop that the vent emits as soon as he does is enough to make him snatch his hand away.

He curls up in a bundle of blankets that night, too cold to actually sleep. The shivers continue to rack through his thinning body long into the night.

Early morning brings Sam Winchester to his door.

The arrival seems... anticlimactic at best. Castiel isn't sure what he had been expecting, though there was certainly meant to be more feeling and fanfare, not the hesitant knock on his door that yields to Sam entering the apartment. Perhaps it's only because Castiel didn't see the Impala out in the street as he had been expecting to for the past five months. Perhaps it's because it's Sam that he sees first.

The Winchester looks _unchanged_. Blissfully so. Plaid shirt, light jacket, faded jeans. His too-long hair is mussed and unkempt, one side flattened from where Castiel assumes with a mixture of delight and jealousy, he had been resting his head against one of the Impala's windows.

And then there's Dean.

Castiel's eyes move expectantly past Sam's broad shoulders, peering past him for a glimpse of an easy smile, car keys twirling around a slim finger. But there is no one.

"Cas." Sam's voice seems hesitant, too formal. "You look..." He seems to be grasping for the appropriate word and settles on the same one Castiel himself had just thought of for him, closing the sentence with a disjointed "the same."

With Sam, the statement is at least true. He looks no different now from when Castiel last saw him months ago. He looks tired, as though he's halfway through finishing a hunt and it's exactly how the former angel would have pictured him in his head, had he ever felt the need to do so.

It does not apply, however, to Castiel. He has seen himself in the dirty bathroom mirror too many times not to notice. Whereas Sam's unwavering appearance is a result of good preservation, Castiel has a different word for his own appearance: stale. He's twice had to take the pair of scissors found in the kitchen drawer to his hair – his inexperience at styling shows – and shaving has become a necessary part of his every day routine. For the most part, he looks the same, but in a used-up, run-down kind of way. There's a difference in his eyes, in his stature, in _himself_that even he can see. How could Sam not?

They're standing in the doorway now, just as they had been when Sam and Dean first left him, but unlike then, Castiel steps out of the way to allow Sam further into the apartment. They had never made it past the threshold before their goodbyes and it's with some relief that Castiel watches Sam make his way into the small living area, closing the door behind him.

"So... How are you, Cas? We haven't spoken in a while or – "

"Not since you left, no." Castiel interrupts, voice a deeper growl than he means it to be, harsh from disuse. He's not sure why he's feeling so defensive all of a sudden. After all, this is what he's been waiting for, isn't it? For Dean and Sam's return, for purpose?

The accusation has a humbling effect on Sam, who reaches out as though to touch him, then changes his mind halfway. "Look, Cas, we – "

"Why are you here, Sam?"

The Winchester's shoulders hunch and despite being half a foot taller than the former angel, he appears to be completely cowed by his presence. Guilt, Castiel thinks. Sam is guilty. "Dean and I are on a hunt about a half hour north of here and I thought I'd stop in and see how you were doing. You didn't answer your phone." Despite the nervous shift in Sam's movements, Castiel can read the honesty in his eyes. He just wishes it were Dean here instead.

"Is it the same hunt that you left for in Missouri?" He's not sure why he asks, but part of him has naively been hoping that when the hunt was over, the pair would return for him. Logic and reasoning both say that they have long since moved on, but it's something he needs to hear. He needs to know if he's been waiting for nothing. Yes, it's true that with his cell phone out of commission, their ability to communicate long distance has been dampered, but it would have been easy to drive to his doorstep, as Sam has obviously done so now.

Sam's eyebrows furrow in confused consideration. "Hunt in Missouri?" He asks, before realizing what Castiel means and quickly correcting himself. "Oh, that. Yeah. We – uh – we finished that one pretty quickly. Just a Woman in White or something, I think."

And, as simply as that, Castiel's world crumbles. All of the hope he's managed to hold on to that they just wanted him to take some time to adjust to humanity and then would bring him with them disappears in a heartbeat, every moment he has spent since they left rendered completely meaningless. The implosion of his life of the past five months is completely internal, however, and outwardly he appears as stalwart as ever.

"You look tired."

Sam's mouth falls open in surprise and Castiel wonders vaguely what about his comment is at all surprising. "Yeah, I – I mean, we drove pretty much all night and – "

The former angel peers at him. He understands tiredness, but not why people insist on putting it off. When he is tired, he sleeps. Hungry, he eats. Mortality is very straight forward, but now that he has nothing left to wait for, Castiel is fairly certain things are going to get substantially more complicated. "You may rest here if you would like."

Sam must see the heartbreak. "I guess I could crash on your couch for a – " His eyes wander over the room, a general living area with an attached half-kitchen. There is no couch.

"You may use the bed, Sam." Castiel amends. "I have finished sleeping."

There's a strange look in Sam's eyes, one that Castiel can't quite comprehend and the fact that he still struggles at reading human emotions is frustrating. It has the makings of pity, however, and that makes him uncomfortable. He has no desire to be pitied. He is no different from Sam now, totally human, utterly vulnerable. What is there that Sam might have that he does not?

Other than Dean's attention.

"I guess I'll take you up on your offer, Cas." The Winchester really does look tired. "When I wake up, is there anything you need? I have the car, I can take you shopping."

Castiel's next question comes utterly unbidden from his lips and seems to hang in the air for several seconds, hopelessly dangling. It's not until after he asks that he realizes he needs to know. "Where is Dean?"

"He – I – Cas – "

Castiel stares.

"I dropped him off at Bobby's. There's a book that we – and he's – I figured I'd check in with you while – "

"The bed is through there," he interrupts, pointing towards the bedroom door as though Sam hadn't had a hand in both purchasing the apartment and procuring its furniture. "You may sleep for as long as you like."

Sam knows a dismissal when he hears it and bears a hasty retreat into the bedroom, leaving Castiel to his silence and the need to re-evaluate what he's going to do with the rest of his life. For someone who once expected to live for all eternity, the thought of the fifty or sixty years he has left feels like an awful long time.

* * *

><p>Four hours or so later, Sam reappears in the kitchen looking, if not well-rested, then at least less tired. Castiel has scarcely moved except to take a seat at the kitchen table, forearms balanced on the wooden surface, eyes focused on something through the distant living room window.<p>

"Thanks, Cas, I needed that." The hunter attempts, hanging back in the doorway as though he's unsure of whether or not to breach the sanctity of the kitchen.

"You are entirely welcome to my bed, should you ever have need of it." Castiel offers, and there again is that strange look, this time accompanied with a hint of amusement that the former angel truly does not understand. He tries again, changing the conversation this time. "You offered to take me grocery shopping. I would appreciate your assistance." Or, more accurately, he needs to learn.

"Uh, sure." Sam crosses the room, apparently more in his element now as he pulls open the fridge door and peers in at the empty shelves. "How are you holding up on food?"

When he looks up again at Castiel, it's clearly in desire of an explanation for the bare refrigerator and the former angel offers the only one he has. "I've eaten already."

"Yeah, I can see that." Sam closes the fridge door again. "How about the cupboards?"

Wordlessly, Castiel produces the unopened box of Fruity-O's that Dean had purchased for him when he first moved in. Sam seems to recognize the box as being the original and hastily pulls the Impala's keys out of his front jacket pocket.

"I think you're overdue for some groceries, Cas. Have you even bought any food since the last time I saw you?"

Castiel doesn't think Sam realizes the blow that the words deliver. If he hadn't purchased food in the time since they left him, he would have perished from starvation months ago. Kind of Sam to consider this now, after five months.

"Look, Cas, it doesn't matter." He must have taken too long to answer, because Sam is already moving towards the door. "We'll go get you stocked up again. Still have that credit card we gave you?"

It's in the pocket of his suit pants and he pulls it out to show to Sam, who takes it and hands him a new one that he retrieves from his own wallet. "You're going to want this one now. That other one's probably been flagged already, especially if you've been using it."

"I've used it at the store down the street." He comments as though to prove that he has in fact been doing something. It's where he's been going when he needs more grapefruit or the frozen meals that Dean introduced him to before leaving. Sam hasn't checked his freezer, but there are still at least four or five Hungry Man dinners left in there.

Sam doesn't bother to look, though, instead reaching for the rumpled trench coat hanging on an old nail next to the door, passing it to Castiel. There's a hesitance to the way he grabs it, as though he has some particular aversion to touching it. It is, Castiel is willing to atone, somewhat filthy. "Here, it's cold outside."

The former angel dutifully shrugs it on, appreciating its familiar weight across his shoulders. He feels more complete now. More himself and yet also more human in his ragged attire.

"Don't use this new card there, Cas. We'll have to walk down and see if there's somewhere else you can go. Maybe we can get you a job, get you out of the house more."

He bites back the obvious retort that this is a fourth floor apartment and not a house, understanding what Sam's idiom actually means. He doesn't want a job though. Jobs are for humans. He wants a purpose.

Sam leads him through the building, apparently forgetting Castiel's distrust of the elevator and heading towards it. Castiel veers away and into the nearby stairwell. Sam follows, retaking the lead once they reach the street. They pass the corner convenience store that Castiel has been periodically visiting in favor of the 24-Mart down the street. He has never been in here before, not having had any reason to walk the extra distance with the other store conveniently available.

The hunter offers the clerk a polite smile when the man looks up at the sound of the bell tinkling over the door. Castiel decides immediately that he dislikes the sound. The other store did not have a bell, why can't he continue to purchase necessities from there?

"What do you usually like to eat, Cas?" Sam has grabbed a basket from near the door, holding it in the crook of his arm and while Castiel doesn't take a basket for himself as well, he commits the gesture to memory and considers the question.

He doesn't _usually _like to eat anything. He would greatly prefer not having to eat at all. The things he's ingested since being left to his own devices have been the result of suggestions made by either Sam or Dean and not his own choosing. He can't live like that any longer, however; these are choices he's now going to have to make and his mind skips back to their encounter with Famine months ago. "My vessel enjoys hamburgers."

"It's not your 'vessel' anymore, Cas. It's your body, now." Sam steers him towards the freezers along the back wall and Castiel recognizes the frozen dinner packages. None of these are Hungry Man, though. The other store had Hungry Man. "Also, frozen burgers don't taste so great on the stove and I think barbecuing might be a bit beyond your skill level." He pulls out a package and waves it towards him. "What about this? Chicken and rice."

Castiel doesn't move, eyes narrowing. "Why did you ask what I wanted if you were only going to disregard it entirely, Sam?"

The chicken and rice goes into the basket, followed immediately after with four other frozen dinners. "Even Dean can't nuke a burger and make it taste good. Better to just stick with – you okay?"

No, he's not, though Castiel hadn't registered the light-headedness he's feeling until Sam pointed it out and he's on the floor before he even realizes that he's falling. Hunger, yes, that was the pang he'd been feeling all morning. It makes sense now, even as Sam's huge face looms in his vision, the Winchester hovering worriedly over him.

"Cas?"

There's a broad hand dangling in his face – Sam's – but Castiel doesn't take it. The floor isn't all that uncomfortable now that he's down here, and raising his head only brings about another wave of dizziness that he doesn't like at all.

"Sir, are you alright?" The clerk has joined them now as well and the concern on his face makes Castiel vaguely uneasy. He's not used to people this involved in his well-being. Not used to even having to consider his well-being. It's unsettling.

"He's fine." Castiel watches as Sam diffuses the situation, taking one of his hands to haul him up off of the dirty tiled flooring. There's a quick rush of blood surging from his head that creates a buzzing in his ears and for a moment the disorientation increases dramatically before the world tilts properly back into place. "He's just anemic. Come on, Cas, let's go."

His head starts to clear as Sam all but drags him out of the store and into the fresh air outside. Probably he can't shop in here anymore, either.

"Dude," Sam drops his hand, a scandalized look on his face. "When was the last time you ate?"

"This morning." He answers honestly, though suddenly the grapefruit quarter is sitting much more lightly in his stomach. "Why did you lie to the shopkeeper? My vessel is not to my knowledge anemic."

"_Body_, Cas," Sam corrects again, rolling his eyes. "You may as well be. What did you eat?"

He considers. Sam had been the one to suggest grapefruit to him as a form of breakfast in the first place, odd that the Winchester would fail to remember this. He answers, however, offhandedly.

Apparently it's not the right answer. "That's _it?_What did you have yesterday?"

Castiel quickly finds himself rattling off a week's worth of food, the same items that he has been eating every single week since being left to his own devices. Each thing a recommendation by one or both of the brothers, all of which are apparently now unacceptable to Sam, who indicates a restaurant across the street and leads the way over to it.

"Come on, we're going to put some real food in you. Honestly, Cas, it's like you forget you're human now."

Castiel bristles at the comment. Of course he doesn't forget that he's human. How could he? There are so many things about being human that, colloquially in Dean's words "_suck,_" that the fact that he is one of them is on the uppermost echelon of his mind at all times.

The restaurant is nicer than any other he's ever been in with the Winchesters before, though Castiel recognizes that it's still not the type of establishment human standards would consider to be "nice."

They're shown in to a table right away, the waitress offering them both a too-sweet smile as she hands over their menus. Judging by the number of people around them – or lack thereof – it's not the most popular time of day for dining.

"This place isn't bad, Cas. Pretty cheap, too." Sam is scouring the menu thoughtfully, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the tabletop. Castiel wishes he would stop. "You should try coming around more often. Get some real meals here."

Castiel doesn't answer. Doesn't point out that "more often" implies he already attends meals at this particular establishment with some sort of frequency. Instead, he glances down at his own menu, whatever nice thoughts he'd had of this place marred by the large gravy stain down the middle of the lunch items. This is always the most difficult part of going out. The number of tiny, seemingly insignificant decisions that need to be made _all the time_.

In the end, he decides to copy Sam. When the waitress returns, they both order the club sandwich.

"So," Sam begins once the overly friendly young woman has again departed. "Does that happen often? The fainting thing?"

"It depends on how you would define 'often.'" The response comes out more bristled than perhaps it should have, but of all the times he had hoped for one of them to remember him and offer help, it wasn't Sam Winchester he'd really wanted. It smarts more than he had thought it possible to know that Dean really just does not care. And really just is not coming back.

Sam has the decency to at least look guilty, though Castiel is more angry at himself for becoming so dependent on the Winchesters in the first place. Dependent. Falling. Human.

"Did you even try, Cas? I mean, you knew we weren't coming back any time soon, right? Why wouldn't you – "

Castiel looks up at Sam slowly, expressions perfectly schooled, face almost entirely blank.

The younger Winchester's eyes widen. "You mean – Dean didn't – he didn't _tell_you?"

There is nothing that Castiel has to say to this that will tip Sam off any further than the look on his own face. Of course Dean did not tell him. And to know that he had planned it this way from the very beginning stings more than he has words to describe.

Sam switches up tactics immediately, steering the subject away from Dean and his inexcusable abandonment. "How about when we get back to your place, I'll help you come up with a grocery list and some menu ideas so you can actually take care of yourself when I'm not around anymore – "

Castiel is on his feet before he realizes what he's doing, rage – such a human emotion – flooding his veins with venom. He's forgotten already that the entire point of this trip was for Sam to show him how to exist without them, but to have the Winchester acknowledge it is too much. He knows what this is about now. He's Castiel, the human who used to be an angel. Weak, pathetic. Incapable.

No wonder Dean doesn't want him around, he can't even feed himself properly.

It doesn't matter, he wants to commiserate with himself. It doesn't. Except that it does and the sharp burn of embarrassment that courses through him is too much. "You left me to figure this out for myself the first time." He announces to Sam, eyes hard, jaw set. "Let me figure it out now."

He doesn't bother to look back as he walks away.

Neither of them ever did.

* * *

><p>When Sam steers the Impala back into the motel parking lot, Dean is already there waiting for him. It's the work of luck that he happened to be around at exactly the right minute to catch his brother returning from wherever it is he disappeared off to while Dean was still in the shower and the confrontation begins as soon as he opens the door.<p>

"You just going to fucking take off whenever you feel like it? Where were you?" He's on Sam before his brother can even climb out of the car, hands gripping the edge of the driver's side window even though it means he's breaking his own rule about leaving smudges on the glass.

"Bobby's," is the prompt answer and Dean's eyes narrow, searching for dishonesty somewhere in the open, earnest expression on Sam's face. "Then I went to visit Cas."

He shouldn't care. If he really, truly didn't feel something about this, the thought of Sam going to visit shouldn't make his fingers grip down on the window edge so tightly that there's more danger to the glass than mere smudges. There's no denying the way that the window digs into the insides of his knuckles or the sick feeling of guilt that rises up in his stomach.

"Why?" The question is hard, laced with the kind of authority Dad would have used to question an unnecessary action.

"Dean, we _left_him to figure out how to live like a regular human." Sam pulls a face, tilting his chin forward defiantly. "By himself."

He shrugs stiffly in response. "It's not like he's some kind of alien or something. He's a friggin' angel, he knows how the world works." Dean looks away, can't take the smug, pointed expression on his brother's face any longer. This is good for Cas and it's good for them and he says as much out loud. "Besides, it's not like he ever called us to ask for help or anything."

"He thought we were coming back."

Which, okay, Dean will admit was a dick-move, not telling him. But if he'd said outright that they were going their separate ways, what's to say that the angel wouldn't have followed? Kinda defeats the whole 'stay safe and be normal' part of the exercise.

But Sam's still going. "He sat in that apartment and rotted for five months, Dean, because he _thought we were coming back_."

"So what? It's _my _fault that he thought – "

"_Yes_, it's your fault." Sam's practically yelling now and Dean finds that kind of surprising. He never really thought his brother considered Cas a friend. "I thought you told him! You had a whole week to say 'by the way, Cas, we're dumping you here, start a new life without us' and you never did?"

Dean's eyes narrow and his hand slips off the window, leaving a number of smudges in its wake, though he doesn't seem to notice. "So now it's my fault that _you_thought – "

Sam's tone is clipped, even, and Dean gets the sense that he's done with this. "Why didn't you just tell him?"

He throws up his hands, irritation seeping into his every movement. "I dunno, I thought he might try and follow us or - "

Once again, his brother cuts him off. "Right, Dean, because we're so worth following. Look, I just figured someone should try checking up on him. It's been almost half a year. He's been miserable."

Dean doesn't answer, just takes the car keys from Sam's hand and slips into the Impala behind, leaving his frustrated brother standing in the spray of gravel that shoots out from the back wheels as he speeds away.

He's been miserable, too.

* * *

><p>Castiel finds himself visiting the diner again about two weeks after leaving Sam there. It's two weeks spent trying to decide on what to do now that he's truly alone in the world. Part of him – a part that had been so easily suppressed as long as he thought there was a chance of Dean returning – wants to attempt a summoning of one of his brothers. Call on Balthazar or Rachel, beg them for help.<p>

Perhaps it's the result of his newfound humanity that the idea of asking anyone for anything seems shameful. Depending on others is what's gotten him here in the first place, after all, and he's going to have to rely on no one but himself to find his way back.

He starts with throwing out his cell phone. He takes the little device and plunks it into the kitchen garbage with substantially less remorse than he probably should have been feeling. Admittedly, it's not as though he's been able to turn it on in months, but the act of getting rid of it is – to him, anyway – the chance to lose his number, officially preventing either Sam or Dean from ever calling him again.

There is the added bonus of the fact that he doesn't have a copy of their own numbers written down. Short of either of them appearing on his doorstep, Castiel is officially unreachable.

With the phone in the trash and a barren, lonely apartment around him, the former angel knows he needs to go out. Dean Winchester isn't coming back and it would be best for the both of them if he "moved on."

"Moving on," in Castiel's mind, means leaving the apartment more than once a week. He makes a point of going outside at least once a day, finding himself walking aimlessly through Sioux Falls at first, eyes to the ground, never really focused on anything more than whether or not he'll be hit by a moving vehicle as he crosses the street. The 24-Mart stands more often than not at the end of his meanderings, until the day he settles on the diner as a destination.

The two blocks of concrete between it and his apartment become all too familiar, as does the smiling waitress who had once shown him and Sam to their seats and the club sandwich that he continues to order with each visit.

It takes the waitress – Sandy, as her glittery nametag identifies her – exactly six days to ask him about it.

"Hon, you're going to turn into one o' them sandwiches of yours if you don't order something else." Her accent isn't South Dakotan, but Castiel is too unfamiliar with the verbal differences in human dialects to place the region as she slides his plate away from the table, beaming at him. "And what a shame that would be, too. Cute thing like you."

He blinks at her, voice rough with disuse, still not quite used to the attention. "Biologically speaking, that's impossible."

Sandy laughs at this, face contorting into a wide, genuine grin. "You come in here tomorrow and I'll introduce you to grilled cheese, sweetheart."

When Castiel returns to the diner the following afternoon, she does. And then ribs, french fries, chicken parmesan and the diner's menu in its entirety. The bombardment of food on his taste buds of meal after meal has Castiel realizing that there are in fact things he prefers over others.

She gets him to talk, too, and although he never has anything particularly meaningful to share with her, she listens with a kind ear. Dean has schooled him thoroughly in not relating information about what he used to be or what he knows, but when the light bulb in his apartment burns out, she directs him to the nearest hardware store with an amused grin.

He listens to her stories as well. He knows that he doesn't understand much about how restaurants are run, but he had been certain there must be something unusual happening to keep Sandy at the front of the restaurant every day, ready to take his order, until she shares that she was taking every shift she could get to help her boyfriend get through his education at the University of South Dakota.

Once, he offers her his credit card only to have it laughingly pushed back towards him.

"You're gonna need that, sweetie, if you want to keep eating out every night."

He pockets the plastic card and doesn't offer it again. He understands the refusal of charity too well.

* * *

><p>"Coffee for me and a half-caff double vanilla latte for my sister over there." Dean waits idly at the counter as the barista gets their drinks. It's unusual to be at a chain coffee place like this one, even more unusual for them to be in an honest-to-God city, but he's always liked Wichita.<p>

When he brings their order back to the table Sam's waiting at, his brother flips around his laptop to show him the screen. "Alma Cemetery. Apparently, a number of people report to have seen things there. Especially at night."

Dean rolls his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. Cemeteries are rarely actually haunted. In his experience, ghosts prefer to follow around people they once knew or places they once lived. "Unless it's some sort of Indian burial ground that's going all _Poltergeist_on the place – "

"Vengeful farmer's property." Sam supplies with that smug look that says he's anticipated Dean's argument and already figured out a way around it.

"Okay, so Old MacDonald dies and they turn the field into the local marble town and he gets pissed?" Another sip of the viciously bitter drink passes his lips. "That's really the best we've got?"

Lips pursed, Sam turns the laptop back towards himself. "There's a couple things out in Roscoe that look promising. Rapid City, too. And there's a college in Yankton that – "

Dean raises an eyebrow at his brother. All three of those places are in South Dakota. In convenient proximity to Sioux Falls. Where Castiel is. Where Dean is absolutely not going, as much as the little voice inside his head insists that he should. "Where did you say that farmer was again?"

"_Dean_."

"We're in Kansas, let's find a hunt _in_Kansas."

Now Sam's rolling his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "It's been a couple weeks, I think maybe we should drop in and see – "

"There's no one for us to 'drop in and see', Sam. Leave it alone." And then, maybe only because the thought's been bothering him for months since they left the angel on his own, he adds, "If he wants to see us, he'll call."

* * *

><p>"How are things?" Sandy asks, about a month and a half since Castiel last saw Sam, over half a year since he's seen Dean. It's a fairly commonplace question and one that she asks every time she sees him. He's halfway through deciding on an answer when a violent explosion of sound erupts through the kitchen doors, drawing the attention of wait staff and diners alike.<p>

"Must be another one," the waitress tuts, moving towards the kitchen. "You wait here, sweetheart, I'll be back for your order in half a sec." She calls out the soup of the day as she retreats, leaving Castiel to take back the seat he's just instinctively jumped up from.

He glances over the menu with narrowed eyes, though he knows the food items practically by heart now.

"Sorry 'bout that," Sandy is back, pencil tucked haphazardly behind her ear.

"Is everything alright?" Not that there's probably anything he can do about it anymore, but it feels right to ask. Dean would have, though he bites back the thought that given Dean's actions, he may not exactly be the best human role model.

"Not unless you can fight off ghosts, sweetie-pie. What can I get you today?"

This spikes his interest and how could it not? He hasn't sensed any restless spirits here in the diner – or anywhere else, for that matter – but then how could he? Without his Grace, he's even less powerful than the weakest human psychic. This ghost though, interesting. "I'm surprised to hear you have a ghost problem. Given the abundance of salt on the premises."

"What?"

"Salt." He leans in a little closer as though to impart a secret of some sort. In some ways, he is. "It has purification properties. Ghosts are incapable of tolerating both it and iron."

The expression on the waitress' face is completely foreign to him. The nuanced levels of both confusion and perturbation too intricate to decipher. Castiel does get that his sharing of ghost-related knowledge was unwelcome, however, though he's not certain as to why. Shouldn't they be accepting of his assistance if it means an end to their problem?

"Ghosts aren't real, sweetie, but thanks for the concern. What we need is bus boys who aren't psychotic nut jobs."

Castiel doesn't know what makes him say it, but the words seem to come out of his mouth reflexively. Even if he doesn't know what half of them mean. "I'm not a psychotic nut job."

She laughs outright at this and he wonders briefly if perhaps she's laughing _at_him. "Okay, cutie. You just wait right here and I'll bring you your very own application." She moves away from the table, hips swaying. "And a club sandwich. On the house."

She's gone before he can tell her that he doesn't need the house, just the sandwich and his confusion continues when she returns and slides a piece of paper across the table towards him, before setting down his food. "You come here often enough, might as well make a little money, too."

And somehow, Castiel finds himself with a job.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

There would have been plenty of opportunity for this to end terribly. Castiel doesn't seem to have any of the things required of him to work anywhere, let alone at the diner; social security and _real _ID being some of them. But apparently the fake paperwork that Sam and Dean had put together before leaving is enough to satisfy the restaurant's owners and Castiel finds himself bussing his first table within three days.

The other bus boys are young. Not in the sense that Castiel has existed for eons and they only a brief moment in the overall expanse of the world, but in the human sense. School-aged. Young boys and one or two girls getting their first jobs.

But it's Castiel's first job, too.

The work is mechanical enough for him to be proficient at it. Clear away leftover dishes, dump food into the trash, wipe and set the tables. Fork, knife, spoon. It's alphabetical.

When he points this out to his coworkers, they hide their amusement and Castiel realizes quickly that this is not so different from the garrison, then. His comrades didn't exactly appreciate his observations there either.

His mortal coworkers seem to tolerate him for the most part, which is all Castiel asks for – all Nisroc, Malchediel and the rest of the garrison had ever done anyway. To ask for more seems too much like hubris and Castiel now knows the pain of falling in too close to humans. Literally.

He accepts their company, listens to their jokes with varied levels of understanding, but most importantly, he learns.

He learns that he'll never achieve the quick comprehension of popular culture that Dean has. That probably he'll never understand the complicated human mating rituals. The sex, he gets. Procreation. But the many and subtle steps involved in reaching that point are baffling.

The first time a co-worker approaches him, mistaking his vessel's – body's – age for years of human experience, it's one of the younger waiters: a gangly youth in his teen years. He's taken up more than a passing interest in a girl at his school and assumes Castiel is capable of assisting him in planning a suitable advance. Unfortunately, the former angel doesn't realize what he's actually trying to ask until it's too late.

"Hey, do you have a minute?"

Castiel looks up from the table he's wiping down. It's after hours and the restaurant is closed, so there's no urgent need for him to finish in a time shorter than sixty seconds. "Yes. Is something wrong?"

"Do you – have you ever liked someone?" The youth is leaning against the table, eyes focused on something off in the distance, not quite able to make contact with Castiel. He seems – to Castiel, anyway – nervous about something.

"Yes. I have liked a number of people," is the former angel's flat response. That number, of course, being somewhere between one and three, depending on how deep of an emotion requirement "liking" is considered to have.

"What did you do to get them to like you back?"

"I – " It's frustratingly difficult to think of any particular moment in which Castiel can consider Dean to have "liked him back." "Once, a friend of mine took me to a house of assignation and became greatly amused by my error of mentioning the father of a prostitute."

The waiter's eyes widen. "So... you're saying I should make her laugh then?"

"Perhaps you should take them to a brothel."

This happens once more with a different waiter before Castiel's inability to offer assistance seems to become known throughout the diner enough to dampen any future attempts.

For the most part, he does his job and after two weeks of work, pays of the bill incurred to his fake credit card. He has Sandy help him route over and correct the false address. Aside from the name engraved on the card, it may as well be legitimate.

Life continues to be an endeavour and though his days lose some of their previous structure, they gain color and his thoughts of Dean are limited to the lonely hours of the night. The dreams that had started when he first left never stop, but Castiel no longer sits at the window to watch for the Impala. No longer expects it.

Instead, he waits for his shift to start. For a table that needs bussing. For _something_.

And as it turns out, that something finds him.

For his first time tackling a ghost, both alone and as a human, there is probably much more fanfare involved than either prudent or necessary.

He first catches sight of the girl during the Friday night dinner rush. Tables cleared and set for the next influx of diners, he's charged with the task of taking out the soon-to-be-overflowing garbage cans behind the restaurant. She's standing there, next to one of the twin dumpsters, hair in tiny, Grecian whorls which Castiel notices are twisted from wetness, though the night air is warm and dry. Her eyes are large and sad, but her unfortunate appearance isn't enough to knock Castiel off of his guard.

He recognizes a spirit when he sees one and when she rushes him as he goes to swing the bags into the dumpster, he's just as quick to back away. Perhaps not as swiftly as he had once been, but fast enough to put the heavy back door of the diner between them before she can reach him.

The next move seems nothing short of logical to him. Without his Grace, he has no means of protecting the people around him, so hurling himself into the dry storage to grab a bag of table salt and line the door with it only seems to make sense. He has nothing but the salt to protect them with, nothing to kill the ghost, only to stop her in her tracks.

It's not his fault that the hurried movement draws attention to itself and causes widespread panic amongst the cooks and servers still coming into and out of the kitchen.

His supervisor sends him home early. To "get some rest." But Castiel doesn't need rest, he needs a library.

Although he's been living in Sioux Falls for almost a year now, he has to ask the convenience store owner at the 24-Mart where to find the place.

The process of looking up the deceased girl's story is not so different from finding things in Heaven's Hall of Records. In fact, with the use of a computer – and assistance from a librarian – finding out about the girl is easier than it would have been to dig through millennium's worth of ribboned scrolls.

Her name is Julie-Anne Thoreau and she was reported missing on a Saturday about six months ago. Last seen in the same neighborhood as Castiel's diner. Body never found. The puzzle pieces quickly fall into place, despite the relative slowness of his mortal brain. Reported missing on a Saturday, probably killed the Friday before. Her appearance behind the restaurant may be cyclical.

Clearly, her presence is a violent one, if her antics are anything to go by, fuelled by what undoubtedly had been a violent death.

Castiel pushes aside the copy of the newspaper he's been reading and rises, trench coat flapping behind him as he departs the library. The woman is a threat to the scant life he's managed to carve for himself, by himself – let alone the number of people working at the diner whose presence he has grown to appreciate. He has no gun, nor access to one and the girl's remains were never found. Logic dictates that she was most likely left to rot in the dumpster behind the diner, though that doesn't help Castiel now.

It's been months, she's certainly no longer there.

He's never been to a landfill, but there's something about the nature of the place that suggests any attempt to seek out human remains there would be a futile one. As he has felt so many times before, Castiel craves the ensconcing light of his Grace. It would be so easy to assist the spirit in moving on with some of his former celestial strength.

In the end, it costs him what turned out to be a most short-lived career as a bus boy.

Sam and Dean had never used exorcism to deal with ghosts, not that Castiel had ever seen anyway. He imagines that they simply aren't familiar with the rite or they would probably try it out. It's a fairly straightforward process, though, much simpler than the one needed to work for the removal of either a demonic or angelic presence.

He gets the chalk lines drawn on the pavement behind the restaurant well in advance of Julie-Anne's anticipated appearance, during his break. The sheep's blood procured from the racks of lamb in the cold storage he smears along the white lines only moments before the spirit's arrival.

Whether this is the time of her death or she's simply noticed Castiel's presence, Julie-Anne appears in the same place as before, between the two dumpsters. Her attempts to drive him back inside tonight are cut short when she crosses the chalk lines to rush him. All it takes is a few words in Enochian, sounding especially foreign falling from his human tongue, and the spirit is gone in an ascending spiral of ghostly smoke.

It's perhaps nothing more than Castiel getting his feet wet, but after the reaming out he receives from his supervisor when he arrives back inside the kitchen, smeared with lamb's blood and chalk, twenty minutes late for the rest of his shift, it's enough incentive to hail a taxi and arrive on Bobby Singer's doorstep.

The taxi had not been an especially harrowing experience. He had, after all, taken the bus before. Sam had very deliberately written down the number to a Sioux Falls cab company months before specifically for this purpose.

"Bobby's only a phone call away if you run into trouble, Cas. But if you need to get to him, call this number and they'll pick you up. Just use your credit card."

Castiel had not been listening. "You and Dean are only a phone call away as well."

Dean, staring out the window of the apartment, hadn't answered.

"What in the – Castiel?" Bobby's surprise at finding the former angel on his doorstep could be for any number of reasons. Castiel thinks, however, that probably it's genuine shock that he's managed to stay alive this long without his Grace.

"Yes." He answers, flatly. "Hello, Bobby." It's precisely what he would have said as an angel, no warmth in the greeting at all, as though anything he's learned from his time at the restaurant has simply been lost at the sight of the hunter's familiar face.

"Well, come in." The man steps aside, allowing Castiel into the house, something he had only done begrudgingly before, leftover bitterness at Castiel's inability to heal his wounded legs. He follows him out to the kitchen, where Bobby has clearly been working on something supernatural. The relics and herbs laid out on the table are certainly inedible.

"What brings you?" The hunter leans over the table, resuming his earlier task of grinding and mixing, creating a paste of sorts in the wooden bowl set out before him.

"I've exorcised a ghost." The announcement holds the barest note of pride, but it seems to set Bobby on edge and his frozen hands nearly drop the asphodel root he's crushing.

"You _what_!"

"A ghost was terrorizing my place of work." Castiel tilts his head, peering at Bobby, willing him to understand what he's trying to say. "I exorcised it."

The older hunter is skeptical now. "Your place of work?"

He elaborates, explaining the restaurant and the spirit in simpler, concise terms.

At the end of his explanation, Bobby is eyeing him carefully, mixture on the table all but forgotten. "Do Sam and Dean know about this?"  
>"Of course not. I haven't spoken to either of them in several weeks." Sam, he means. He hasn't spoken to Sam in several weeks. Dean he hasn't spoken to in two hundred and ten days exactly. Not that he is intentionally keeping track. Or anything.<p>

"Sounds like you've got a pretty good handle on yourself, then." Bobby appears to have regained some of his composure, flooring Castiel with a flat stare that says he'd rather see the angel out than anything else. "What do you need me for?"

Here, Castiel's pride warps itself into earnestness. This is his chance to convince the older hunter that he's useful and if Bobby can agree with that, how could Dean not? "I would like to help."

"Help? Help with _what_?"

"Hunting." He hasn't given the idea tremendous amounts of thought, but it's as clear now as it has always been to Dean, that hunting is all he is capable of doing. It's a world beyond the natural, human one and it's a world that he understands. Hunters are not members of everyday society and Castiel knows there is no hope for himself, a former angel, to be accepted there either.

Dean is wrong. He _is_ strong enough and if he has to prove it first, then that's what he's going to do.

"You want to be a hunter?"

Here, Castiel disagrees with Bobby's choice of words. He doesn't _want_ to be a hunter, he _is _one. "I would like information for whatever hunt you may have recently heard of."

Bobby appears to be trying not to laugh. Castiel isn't stupid, he knows what that means and as with Dean, he doesn't much appreciate it. "I don't have any hunts to give you, Cas. If that's even what you really want."

Castiel nods pointedly at the bowl on the table, frustrated that the other hunter is so blatantly lying to him. "What's that, then?"

Bobby's face blanches slightly under his bear and Castiel believes that this is the moment that the man realizes he is serious. "Look, you don't just exorcise one ghost – which, believe me, is never the right route, regardless – and call yourself a hunter."

"I was there for the fight with Lucifer, if you recall. As well as Pestilence." Both of these entirely without angelic Grace, too, though he doesn't say as much out loud. To speak of the things he has seen and fought while _still_ an angel would take the entirety of at least one mortal lifetime, possibly more. If he could remember everything anyway. One of the many limitations of the human mind is its inability to comprehend anything more than eighty years back or so. For Castiel, this is scarcely a fraction of the time he has lied and the slipping memories are unnerving.

"Alright, fine. So you've hunted before. But not alone. Not _human_."

"Do you have a hunt for me, or not?" The extra gravelly bit of growl to his voice is apparently all that it takes to be added to the roster. If he wasn't one before, he is now. Castiel is a human hunter 

* * *

><p>The bullet leaps out of Dean's .45, blasting forwards only to thunk harmlessly against the trunk of a nearby tree. He knows that Sam would call him on this, but with the shot missed and the werewolf still bearing down on them, there's no time to discuss why Dean's usual accuracy has dropped down to a fraction of his former skill. It's Sam's next shot that brings down the monster and with the hunt all but wrapped up, Dean knows that he's in for the bitching-out of his life.<p>

The "are you okay, dude?" and subsequent lecture about his feelings that he's expecting never comes and Dean watches, surprised, as his brother bends down over the werewolf to ensure that the shot had been a fatal one. He lets out a heavy breath of air as he joins Sam, sliding his own gun back into the waistband of his jeans.

"Looks good here."

"Yeah." It's Dean who shoots the stunned look at his brother. He'd been so certain that Sam would call him on that missed shot, not so much because it's a fluke, but because he's been firing an awful lot of them lately. Like, _a lot_. "So – "

"Guess that's it, then." Sam wipes his hands on his pants and rises.

"You 'guess that's it, then?'" The words slip out before Dean realizes what he's doing. Why would he even _want_to have this conversation? Because it definitely looks like that's where he's going with this.

His brother raises an eyebrow at him before turning towards where they parked the Impala, a couple yards further back in the woods. "What do you want me to say, Dean? We killed it, hunt's over, let's go."

Except that Dean can't move on from this. From the rawhead he missed with the taser, maybe. The poltergeist that managed to get the jump on him, sure. That pair of witches who cursed him maybe just a little too easily, okay, but a werewolf standing twelve feet away that he can't hit? There's something wrong with him and maybe he just needs Sam to confirm it. "I don't know, man. But Dad would've reamed me out for that."

"Well, I'm not Dad, Dean," Sam mumbles, moving forward to the Impala. "I'm not going to yell at you because you're having trouble focusing." _A lot_ of trouble focusing. "I just wish I knew why."

"Yeah." Dean follows after him, not quite looking at his brother as he answers. "Me, too." 

* * *

><p>The waxed wooden floor is slick under his shoes and it's the first time that Castiel thinks perhaps he should lose Jimmy Novak's cheap dress shoes in favor of something with greater traction. There's no time for further contemplation of the matter as the rawhead he's grappling with pushes him farther across the room. It's reaching for his throat, but Castiel – human though he may be – is quicker and he has the taser pressed into the rawhead's shoulder before it can draw blood.<p>

He manages to pull far enough away to prevent the current moving through the old electric razor touching him and the monster goes down in a crackle of electricity.

A quick nudge to the creature with the toe of his shoe confirms the kill and Castiel pockets the homemade weapon in his trench coat. The coat sags heavily on him now, pockets a veritable weapons cache, stuffed full with flasks of holy water and homemade wooden stakes.

He calls a cab to take him back to his apartment and the driver, Fernando, pops his usual joke about being a chauffeur. It wasn't funny the first time and Castiel doesn't know why he insists on repeating it. He does know that pointing this out would be rude and so the ride back to his apartment is silent.

"Have a good night," Fernando calls out to him when he exits the taxi, and Castiel affords him a brief nod before ascending the staircase to his home. His human legs appreciate the burn as he climbs the four floors from lobby to apartment. He's getting physically stronger now, something he's never needed to concern himself with before, vessel going on unchanging for as long as his Grace was capable of sustaining it.

Now, he can feel the difference in his body. He's been losing weight in fat but putting it back on in newly developed muscle.

He'll never achieve the same abilities that he'd once had, but he can feel the difference, can understand why Dean wouldn't want him around. But he's not weak in this form anymore.

Another Hungry Man meal fresh from the microwave serves as dinner and as Castiel still does not have a television set, he looks to the window for entertainment. The more he watches people, the more he finds himself beginning to understand them - but not just people. Hunters as well. Bobby has a wide network of friends, many of whom drop in and out of Sioux Falls as hunts and the need to visit the man's extensive library bring them in.

They all seem to have their own speciality. Vampires, werewolves, poltergeists. While Sam and Dean have fought any number of things in Castiel's presence, if asked, the former angel would cite demons as their primary quarry. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on where you stand on the issue, the prevention of the apocalypse and return of Lucifer to his cage means that demons are few and far between these days.

What _has _increased, however, is the number of ghosts. Whether because of the violent number of deaths caused by the onslaught of the apocalypse or something else, Castiel finds himself going from case to case encountering mostly spirits and poltergeists.

They're usually easy hunts and ever since his first one, he has gone the route of salting and burning corpses rather than exorcising them. He still doesn't carry a gun, but an iron ring purchased as an experiment and firmly wedged in place on his right hand for each hunt works well enough should the fighting turn close quarters. He would suggest it to Dean if he thought the man would listen. It's been eight months since he last saw him.

The first time he's injured, it's little more than a scratch. A nick to the face by a vengeful spirit. Daniel at the convenience store helps him to pick out the appropriate antiseptics. A dab of hydrogen peroxide and a purple band-aid slapped onto his cheekbone sets everything to rights.

When Bobby stares at him incredulously the following morning when he shows up to ask for a new case and says, "Is that Dora the Explorer on your face?" Castiel doesn't so much as bat an eye. He's at the most comfortable with himself that he's felt since he first realized he was falling.

* * *

><p>There are two ghosts at the allegedly abandoned mill out on the highway. This would be fine if Castiel had been expecting more than one Woman in White. Two, however – sisters – prove to be a much greater challenge than he had prepared himself for.<p>

His trench coat sits heavily on his shoulders, soaked through now that the fight has moved out to the storm outside. The empty, gravelled parking lot is a sea of muddy puddles as his body is hurled along it, skidding through the muck under the force of preternatural powers.

The moment that something in his ankle snaps is lost to him. One second he's sliding through gravel, the next, sprawled onto his stomach, starbursts of pain exploding behind his closed eyelids as his ankle screams in agony. He's felt pain as an angel, of course, then again as a falling one, but never like this raw, sharp hurt that he feels as a human and has his surroundings swimming before his eyes. Tears, he realizes, welling up and blurring his vision even as the pair of ghosts move in closer.

They could kill him and easily. Here, sprawled in the mud, ankle searing with white-hot pain – is it broken? – they could end his fragile life. Humans are so delicate. So breakable. He loses consciousness when a heavy body collides with his own, crushing him against the gravel.

* * *

><p>He hears the fwoosh of gasoline igniting through the bands of gauze wrapped around his ears before he becomes conscious of anything else. It's metaphorical gauze, apparently, as his head seems not to be wrapped in anything at all when he becomes more aware of himself and his surroundings. A side effect of blacking out, he remembers, from that day in the convenience store with am months ago.<p>

His eyes are the last thing to start working, outlasting even his sluggish body, ankle still emitting throbbing waves of pain. It's less urgent now, though and once his eyes agree to respond to the synapses of his brain, he can see the haze of smoke rising up from the grace and through it, image dancing like a mirage in the waves of hot air, the sleek, black body of the Impala.

Another surge of pain has Castiel hunching over himself, familiar image of the Impala lost behind closed eyes, squeezed tight against the nausea and hurt taking over.

"Why the fuck are you hunting alone, Cas?" Warm hands at his shoulders are enough to bring his focus up and away from his injured leg. The words still sound too foggy in his head, too much to dare to hope. It couldn't be. "And what are you even doing out here in the first place?"

Dean's heavy growl is a comfort in and of itself, and Castiel risks opening his eyes and having none of this be real in order to see that it is.

As Sam had months ago, Dean looks exactly as he had the last time Castiel saw him. He's wet, hair streaked with rain water, tiny rivulets rolling down the side of his face, but not so wet as Castiel, lying sprawled in a puddle. He's too stunned for the moment to say anything though and the Winchester has already moved down his body to suss out his injury. A soft exhale says he's found it and gingerly Dean kneels in the gravelled parking lot to roll up Castiel's pant leg. "Gotta be more careful than that, Cas. Those bitches almost killed you."

If this is why Dean was always annoyed by Castiel's appearance, the former angel now understands. He's acting as though he saw Castiel an hour ago, a day at the most, not as though it's been almost a year since he was dumped on his own in a little Sioux Falls apartment.

Castiel finds he's _craving_ acknowledgement of this.

Something.

"Think you can stand if I give you a shoulder?" There is only the barest amount of concern in Dean's hard gaze and Castiel has the distinct impression that he's being treated more as the unfortunate victim than a friend for whom Dean actually cares, and the disappointment and rage that bubbles up within has him struck mute. "What? Forget how to talk, too?"

His usual greeting is bitter, roughened by the fact that the reunion he has been hoping for has been entirely not what he wanted. "Hello, Dean."

There's amusement in the glance that Dean shoots him, which only fuels the ire building within Castiel. He's drenched, muddy, hurting and now this?

"Why are you here?" The words slip unbidden from his mouth, angry.

Dean doesn't answer and Castiel would have commented on this if he hadn't taken precisely that moment to loop one of the former angel's arms over his shoulders and hoist him to his feet.

It hurts. More than any injury he's sustained before, but less than he knows it will when Dean disappears again.

Dean leads him in a wide arc around the still-burning corpses and over to where he's parked the Impala. Castiel wants to resist, refuse Dean's help, call the taxi, but the other hunter doesn't bother to ask for his opinion. He pulls open the passenger side door and gingerly helps Castiel onto the seat without leaving any room for question.

"How's the leg?"

"It's fine. Dean – "

The door is shut in his face.

The tick in Dean's jaw when he climbs into the driver's side says not to try again and Castiel knows that he's close to explosion. It's an expression he is all too familiar with.

Dean's hands grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckle bones white from the effort. They make it maybe three or four miles from the mill before it happens.

"What were you thinking, Cas? _Hunting? Seriously?_"

Castiel, having been anticipating this conversation since being helped into the car, is ready with a response. "It's the job I was created to do."

Dean glances at him sidelong, anger in his eyes. "No one was created to throw their lives away on this, Cas. The job sucks and it's only for the people who can handle it. And I mean that in more than just the whole you-almost-just-died sense."

He doesn't answer. Of all people, why does Dean not understand?

"Sam and I didn't set you up with an apartment and a credit card and everything you could ever want just so you can go get yourself killed."

"Those are not things that I want." Castiel's voice is quiet, grave. He wonders how Dean could ever think that a human apartment and some food equate what he has lost.

"What?" The Impala swerves a little when Dean looks over at him and not at the corner he's fielding, but with eyes back on the road, the car's course evens out once more.

"I did not ask to have those things, Dean." He tries again, watching the Winchester. "You gave them to me and expected me to be grateful. If you thought this is really what I wanted, then I appreciate you thinking of me. But it isn't."

"Cas." Dean's not looking at him, can't and watch the road at the same time anyway, but Castiel knows that even if they were together in an empty room, Dean would not be meeting his gaze. "Do me a favor and stop hunting? Get a real job."

He would like to say that he had one. That as it so often does in Dean's life, the supernatural has once again gotten in the way of things. Instead, he stalwartly watches the road as Dean drives. "I had a 'real job'. As a soldier in the army of the Lord. No mortal occupation could ever possibly compare."

"Then we'll get you on some kind of veteran's welfare plan, Cas. Stop hunting."

The former angel is too busy wondering why Dean sounds so desperate to properly answer.

"You and Sam? All I've got. Which is why I need to know that at least one of you isn't going to die because of me."

"I _have_ died for you."

"Which, yeah, makes me feel so much better, Cas."

They're in front of the apartment now and Castiel watches Dean rather than the view of the building through the window of the Impala. For all he knows, this could be goodbye.

Again.

He expects Dean to nod past him at the door, a non-verbal "get out." Instead, Dean is the one to slide out of the car, shutting his own door and moving around to Castiel's side. He opens the passenger door and holds his arms out with such an open, hopeful look that Castiel can't help but to take his hands, gingerly sliding his legs out of the car.

The hiss of pain he emits when he puts weight down onto his injured ankle is met with a sympathetic exhale from Dean, readjusting his hold to give Castiel better support.

"It's okay, we'll just get you to the elevator and you'll be almost there."

He wants to protest, inform Dean that he hates the elevator , that it cramps up the wings he still feels though he no longer has them. Yet, leaning against the Winchester as they move into the lobby and up to the hated elevator, he remembers the desire he's always felt to go wherever Dean leads. So he goes.

"You're lucky you're only on the fourth floor."

"What?"

Dean glances at him sideways as the elevator begins its shaky ascent. "Shorter ride, shorter fall."

"Oh." He considers this. His discomfort with the elevator has always been the result of claustrophobia rather than the concern that a technical malfunction might take his life. "Elevators are equipped with a counter balancing set of cables, Dean. Should any of the main ones rupture, they would take the weight and prevent accident."

Dean snorts and doesn't answer as the doors ding open, leaving Castiel to wonder if he'd done that deliberately to keep his mind off of the small space. He hopes so.

When they reach his doorway, Castiel is hit for the first time with the uncomfortable sense of embarrassment. Here he is, trying to show Dean that he's strong enough on his own to work with him and his home shows nothing of the strength and adaptation he's so desperate to prove.

"Got a key on you?"

"Yes." He reaches into the front pocket of his trench coat, still soaked and filled to the brim with various hunting accoutrements. "It's right – " His hand closes on the smooth beads of a rosary and he pulls it out to get out of the way. Dean's startled glance prompts him to explain himself. "For holy water."

"For – right, of course. Yeah. What else you got in there?"

From one of the deep, front pockets he produces a soggy fold of writing paper, his equivalent to John Winchester's precious journal, the guiding text of Sam and Dean; his homemade taser, now probably too wet to function safely; a pair of vials containing holy water and a crudely hewn pine stake. Finally, he pulls out the key to the apartment, sliding it neatly into the lock before slipping it away once more.

Dean leads the way in, still holding most of the former angel's weight against his shoulder. He has Castiel situated in a kitchen chair before he pauses to take a look around the place. Castiel tenses with the return of some of that same feeling of embarrassment.

"Haven't done much with the place, have you?"

Nothing. He's done nothing with it.

"Whatever. Home is home. Got any ice?" The ease with which he diverts all attention away from the sparse squalor of the apartment has Castiel reeling, emotions off balance as they fight their way back to familiar ground.

"No. No ice."

Dean makes a little annoyed sound, bending before Castiel to roll up his pant leg past the budding swell of his injured ankle. It hasn't yet begun to change color, but the shape of his leg is mottled and oblong, lines of shin and calf broken by the unnatural bulge.

"If you're gonna injure yourself like this, you need to have something on hand to patch yourself up with."

"I did not intend to be injured."

Dean snorts, pulling away Castiel's sock and shoe. "No one _intends_ to get injured, Cas." He tosses the articles to the side. "Got a first aid kit at least?"

This he has, purchased from the convenience store in a neat, inexpensive package. Castiel nods towards the bathroom where it's tucked in the otherwise empty cabinet below the sink.

His stomach churns a little when Dean is gone from sight as though there is a possibility of the Winchester disappearing somewhere between kitchen and bathroom. He does return, however, plastic kit in hand, which he sets on the table and rummages through, leaving a flurry of alcohol swabs and band-aids in his wake as he searches. "Dora? Really?" He holds up one of the purple bandages and Castiel shrugs.

What he's looking for, it seems, is the tensor bandage he produces with a triumphant grin. He bends over Castiel's foot once more and sets to work. He wraps the bandage at his instep, rolling twice over the top of his foot before figure-eighting around his swollen ankle. The tightness hurts, but the support that each subsequent layer adds already feels good on the sprain.

"No way to tell if it's broken or not without an x-ray. Just try and keep off of it, okay?"

Castiel nods, eyes never leaving Dean's face. This is it, the moment he looks away, hands stuffed in his pockets, apology written in every line of his body. This is when Dean leaves.

"You got more clothes than that?"

The heavy trench coat is lifted off of his shoulders and hung over the chair back, puddle already starting to form from the steady drips of water plinking off of it.

"Yes. In my dresser."

Again, Dean is gone, this time returning with a handful of clothing that Castiel recognizes as a thin t-shirt, a pair of lounge pants and some boxer shorts when they're thrust into his hands. All but the underwear inherited from the Winchesters.

"Throw those on, I'm just going to run out to the Impala for a sec."

Wordlessly, Castiel watches, heart in his throat as Dean disappears out the door.

He tries desperately not to think about it as he angrily peels away his wet clothing in exchange for what he has now in his hands. His ankle protests the lounge pants violently, but Castiel wins the battle, pulling them successfully up over his hips. He has no idea what to do with himself now, but some unspeakable urge draws him to the window.

So many hours he's spent sitting here, watching, waiting. And now he's going to watch Dean disappear for a second time. He's lost his chance to prove himself, prove his strength. If only Dean hadn't had to rescue him. If he could have held out to his arrival, triumphantly burned the bones before Dean showed up. Stood there over the open graves, secure in himself, confident, successful, _strong_.

Then he would have stayed.

Below him, Dean crosses the rainy streets to the Impala and climbs into the driver's seat. The red tail lights reflect off of the wet pavement as they disappear into the darkness.

* * *

><p>The Impala's headlights cut through the rain poorly. The left lamp looks like it's at risk of burning out and Dean's probably going to have to replace it soon if he wants to be able to see through the next unexpected downpour. As it is, there's more than enough light from the city around him to guide him through the streets heading back out of Sioux Falls.<p>

It'll only take about ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get out to the highway and from there he can work his way back onto the country roads that he and Sam usually frequent.

The Metallica song on the radio does nothing to drown out the guilt he's feeling. Because really, this is kind of a new low. It's one thing to leave Cas alone in an apartment, set up with everything he could possibly need to survive on his own – except maybe firsthand experience – but to do it while the former angel has a busted up ankle is just unnecessarily cruel.

But if Cas is strong enough to hunt, he's strong enough to survive on a bum leg for a couple of weeks.

And isn't that a strange thought?

When did he start hunting anyway, what's that about?

The Impala hydroplanes a little on the rain-slicked street and Dean struggles to get it under control again, gingerly braking to a slightly slower speed.

Given the circumstances, he probably shouldn't be so surprised that he bumped into him, though. Hunts are, if not few, certainly less than they'd been before the apocalypse. If you were to ask Dean, anyway. A pair of Women in White was enough of a change in pace for him to take the hunt on his own. And bump into Cas at the same time.

He stops at the last set of lights before the highway and subsequently the last available gas station for at least fifty or so miles. Flicking down the back plates on the Impala, he hunches his shoulders up, head ducked down to keep the rain from dripping in his eyes as he pumps the gas.

"Hey, did you want to buy some ice?"

Dean shoots the gas station attendant at the register inside a startled look. "What?"

The man shrugs and nods towards the door where the hulking ice freezer sits just outside the gas bar doors. "Machine's broken. Trying to unload as much of it as I can before it melts. Make cocktails or something, I don't know."

And somehow he ends up going the opposite direction of the highway.

* * *

><p>Castiel's ankle jolts unpleasantly as he stirs. It's throbbing and the weight of something cold wrapped insistently around it only adds to the growing discomfort. He reaches down to pull whatever it is aside, only to have a cool pair of hands bat his own away.<p>

"Leave it. It'll help the swelling go down."

He lifts his head from where it's buried in the wood of the window sill to see Dean peering down at him in the darkened living room. The light in the bedroom behind him illuminates his tall silhouette as he reaches for him.

"You fell asleep when I went to get some ice." The weight on his leg suddenly makes sense. It's an ice pack. "Totally out of it, dude. Sorry to wake you, but – " Dean hoists Castiel onto his feet, shouldering his weight once more as he helps him in to the bedroom where the bed sheets have already been turned down. " – s'no good to sleep on it like that unless you want it to stiffen up."

Castiel is plunked down onto the edge of the bed and then there are Dean's hands again, at his legs this time, pulling them up onto the bed and under the blankets. As he's tucked into place, he can't help but notice that Dean has changed, too. He's shed his jacket and long-sleeved shirt in favor of the t-shirt he's wearing underneath and while he's still in his jeans, his socks have been removed.

Is he... staying?

"Try not to roll in your sleep or anything, okay? Your ankle needs to stay still." As he speaks, Dean is grabbing for one of the pillows, propping it under Castiel's injure ankle and effectively elevating it.

"Are you sleeping here?" The question is a non-sequitur and the surprised look on Dean's face says that the Winchester has noticed, too.

"I was going to say I'd crash on your couch, but – "

"There is ample space, Dean." The words, once again, come unbidden and Castiel regrets them immediately. He'll only drive Dean away.

Dean frowns. "Cas, I don't think that would be a very good idea."

The disappointment he feels at the rejection burns through him terribly. "I understand, of course."

The bed dips, springs squealing in protest as Dean sinks into place next to him. His warmth seems to radiate through the bed immediately, and Castiel has to hold himself back from moving closer to that heat.

When he falls asleep, his body is ramrod straight, ankle still stretched out before him, while Dean is a tangle of limbs at his side, not quite touching him.

The following morning, the Impala is gone. Dean is gone and his lingering body heat is already starting to dissipate, the bed cooling in his absence.

This time, Castiel knows it's no trip to the store. Dean isn't coming back.

* * *

><p>It takes Castiel about a week of staying off of his leg and subsequently hobbling about between apartment and convenience store before the swelling and pain recedes enough for him to even consider returning to hunting. Dean may not want him to do so, but it remains the only available option. To not hunt is unthinkable.<p>

When he shows up on Bobby's doorstep several days after the older hunter had expected his return, there is just enough concerned warmth in the man's greeting for Castiel to know that returning was in fact the right course of action.

"Been gone longer than I thought you'd be, Cas." Bobby nods at him from the doorway, holding it open wide enough for the former angel to pass through. He does, taking his customary stance in the middle of Bobby's living room as the hunter takes a seat on the couch. Even as a human, he prefers to stand.

"I met Dean."

The hunter's shoulders seem to stiffen somewhat, a barely imperceptible change that Castiel's surprised he even noticed with his human eyes. "I know."

"Did he... say something to you, then?"

Bobby rises from the couch and heads towards the kitchen. Castiel recognizes this – correctly – as the hunter's inability to face him as they have this conversation. To sit idly and discuss the person who has consistently refused Castiel's company time and time again with the angel – human – in question is apparently not something he is capable of doing comfortably. It's also not something that Castiel is especially comfortable with, himself, and he would give much to not have any need of it. "He dropped in a couple days ago. Mentioned he'd seen you, told me about your ankle. Swelling gone down?"

Castiel spares a quick glance downwards at the leg in question. It's still quite sore when forced to bear his weight, and he likely will not be running on it anytime soon, but it _is_ substantially better. Still, he doesn't answer. The fact that he's standing should be explanation enough.

"Look, Cas, I'm sorry about those dumb-as-bricks Winchester boys. But there is nothing that I can do for you about Dean."

No. There's nothing anyone can do. And Castiel does not want Dean's company if it has to be forced from him anyway. It would not be the same as the hunter actually desiring to spend time with him, which it is quite clear he does not. "I... don't know what to do with myself." It's the truth. He had thought that hunting would bring the right sense of fulfillment, the sense that this is what he should be doing, something to fill the gaping hole he feels in his heart and being.

He had also thought that it would bring Dean back, but it would appear that was never actually an option.

"Seems to me like you should just keep on doing what you're doing already."

He raises his head to stare back at Bobby. For a man who had been so vocally opposed to him becoming a hunter at all, the fact that he might want Castiel to continue to be one seems unlikely and yet here he is, spurring him on. "You don't really mean that."

Bobby shrugs. "Wouldn't say it if I meant otherwise. It's not a lot of people who can make as good a hunter as Sam or Dean Winchester. But you, you're not most people."

Castiel appreciates the sentiment, but it's really not enough to make him feel any better about this.

"You're a damn fine hunter, Cas. It would be a shame for you to stop because of whatever this thing you're feeling for Dean is." Bobby's watching him with shrewdness born of experience, and Castiel feels almost as though the man's gaze is capable of piercing through him. Worse than this, he feels like a child in comparison. "Dean may or may not decide he wants to chat with you," the way the hunter says it suggests that "chat" is not necessarily what he means, "You can't work the job and not rub shoulders every now and again, anyway, but all I'm saying is that you and him aside, this is something you are good at. And it might be small potatoes compared to juggling flaming bowling pins or writing the great Enochian novel, but you should be proud of that."

"Proud?" Castiel practically spits the words out, rage bubbling up inside of him. He never had his chance to get truly angry at Dean and Bobby is presenting himself as too easy a target to avoid taking the opportunity. "There is nothing about this in which I can feel _pride_."

"Lost your Grace and learned how to fight with what you had left. I'd say that's a pretty damn good reason to be at least a little pleased with your accomplishments."

"I would rather I never needed to lose my Grace to begin with."

"Same song, different verse." Bobby turns towards the fridge, pulling the door open to extricate a pair of beer bottles, the glass already sweating in the relative Dakota heat of the kitchen. He pops the cap off of each and hands one to the former angel. Supplication, celebration, Castiel isn't sure what the drink is for, but he places the bottle to his lips and takes a long sip. It's sloppy tasting, cheap, though he has no idea whether it is or not, or whether that's simply how beer is meant to taste.  
>He finishes the bottle, though, raising the empty glass to place on the counter as Bobby watches him, surprise in his eyes.<p>

"So, what do you say? Are you throwing in the towel over someone who doesn't want to spend time with you anymore? I have to say, Cas, if that's the case, that makes you a fourteen year old girl still in pigtails, choked up over some boy."

Perhaps Bobby understands better than Castiel had thought, but while he has a point, he's still not sure that he can continue on knowing that Dean will never seek out his company.

"You think that I should continue to hunt?"

"In no short terms, _yes_. You're a good hunter, Cas. And while I know it ain't much of a compliment, you've got the right everything for the job." Bobby finishes off his own beer with a bit of a faint smile, placing the glass down with a clink next to Castiel's empty one. "If that's what you want, I say go for it."

"If that's what I want," Castiel repeats slowly, the words heavy on his lips.

"What, no one ever ask you that before?"

He considers, but there isn't much to consider. "No. Never."

Bobby lets out a soft exhale, leaning against the countertop. "Look, I know you angels are all about your damn bureaucracy, but if you've been going around doing God's dirty work without anyone asking your say so, you got another think coming to you now that you're a human. Congratulations on your newfound free will." His voice softens as he adds, "So when I say you should keep hunting, that's just my opinion on the matter. What do _you_want?"

This requires more consideration. What does he want? He wants to be an angel again, but that seems out of the question. Short of stealing another's Grace - something he could never consciously do - he's stuck here as a mortal until the day he inevitably dies. Because that's what mortality means, doesn't it? That death is inevitable and like Dean, like Sam, like Bobby and everyone else on this miserable planet, Castiel is destined for death.

Where he will end up after passing from the world of the living is anyone's guess, but he doesn't hold much hope for it being any place nice.

He wants also for Dean to acknowledge him. As an equal, as a friend.

Castiel never really had any faith in the idea that Dean would be able to accept the deep love and affection that he has always felt for him. It feels like always, anyway, though the angel knows it can't have been much longer than the two or three years he has known the hunter. But until recently he has always had faith in Dean, even when there was none to be found for his Father. In Dean he could trust, for Dean he would do anything.

Yes. He would like to be an angel and he would like to have Dean at his side.

"I know what you're thinking," Bobby's watching him with an amused look, "But I think you'd better start wishing on a smaller scale or you're going to be in for a world of disappointment."

Smaller scale. Yes. He will never be an angel and Dean will never come back.

Happiness then. He'd like to be happy. Even if he thinks that that's just as foolish a want as the other two, because without his Grace and without Dean, he can never _be_ happy.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want, Cas. But I'm saying it's something you should think about and start workin' on."

He turns back to Bobby then, mind made up. "I will continue to hunt."

The older hunter is quiet for a moment, then turns away to pull something out of the kitchen drawer that contains more papers than utensils. He returns with a thick stack of pages, held together by a flimsy paperclip. "Good. Because I've got something that's right up your alley."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The man reflected in the glass doors of the convenience store is not Castiel. For one thing, _Castiel _was never a man. For another, the heavy motorcycle boots laced up his calves and the pair of sunglasses perched on the top of his head are both things that the Angel of Thursday would never think to wear, let alone purchase. And yet, as the man steps through the automatic doors, entrance bell giving a metallic ding as he disappears from view, Cas knows that the reflection is most definitely himself.

And when exactly had he turned into someone who looked so very human?

The clerk at the register is one of the new teenagers that Daniel's training. A snot-faced high school student with too much gel in his hair and not nearly enough experience under his belt. But he nods at Cas by way of greeting and the hunter addresses him by name. They know him here.

The aisles have been changed around a little since he first started shopping at the 24-Mart, but the freezers remain stalwartly in place at the back of the store, too heavy to move, and it's to here that Castiel goes first. As he always does.

Six Hungry Man dinners get tossed casually into the basket he grabbed on his way into the store. One for Monday through Saturday and then on Sunday, his day off, he'll have dinner at the restaurant. The rest of the space in the basket is filled in with the usual weekly necessities. More band-aids, more hydrogen peroxide, a loaf of bread.

Taylor rings him up with a smile that the hunter doesn't bother to return.

"Have a nice day, Cas."

"Thank you." He holds both bags in one hand as he makes his way back to his apartment. The place has improved dramatically over the past month or two. The kitchen is better stocked, and after the first kitchen table collapsed while he was performing minor surgery on himself for a bullet wound incurred during a fight with a shapeshifter, it was replaced with a much sturdier piece of furniture. And then accompanied by better seating.

The kitchen cabinets, once molding and stained have since been replaced with ones he built himself. They're uneven and not quite mounted properly, but the cherry colored stain he picked out for them is something that he's quite pleased with.

The living room has taken perhaps too many design tips from Bobby's. The walls are lined with bookshelves, these ones purchased and not built after Cas' first try at crafting his own ended in a disastrous implosion of wood and framework. He doesn't have nearly the literary collection that the older hunter has put together, but his own library of useful texts is not anything to laugh at. It's not all reference material either. He's been reading fiction, collecting them, putting together his own thoughts regarding the morals and themes of the human race. He reads indiscriminately; Victor Hugo, James Fennimore Cooper, J.K. Rowling. All genres and time periods.

His mind is better honed now as a result. Not nearly as capable as his angelic one had been, but he's finding it harder and harder to remember what exactly it feels like to _be _angelic anyway. The human body is not capable of such memories and with no reminders and no triggers, it's very difficult to recall what it once felt like to flex his wings and exercise his Grace.

It's best not to remember. Can't miss what you cannot recall. So he goes through each day as a human and it shows. His body is looser, prone to twitches or restless fidgeting. His face has become more expressive, losing the alabaster sheen of angel-hood, wrinkles deepening when he smiles or frowns, both things he now does more of. He's learning to laugh, learning to feel true sorrow and anger, and to control these emotions.

His body is also beginning to reflect his restless manhood. Testosterone coursing through his veins brings with it urges for things that Cas has never needed or especially wanted before. His only memory of sex is tied to Dean Winchester and he prefers not to allow his now frequently wandering mind to veer into that direction. His libido seems to accept the enforced celibacy, even if it's not especially happy about it.

He has his own key to Bobby's house. To use for seeking out books or to let himself in and rifle through the folders of prospective hunts that he keeps in the kitchen drawer.

It's what he goes to do as soon as he finishes with the groceries for the week. It's been several days since his last hunt and his ankle, which never seemed to heal quite right has stopped its irritable twinging long enough for him to consider taking on another. The telephone rings as he's going through the manila folders of information and for a moment he considers not answering it.

And then he does.

"Hello?" It's the phone labelled "Health Department" and Cas hopes that he has enough basic understanding of the convoluted telephone stories to make this work appropriately.

"I'm calling from Newton, Indiana in regards to two of your inspectors? Is this Mr. Dawkins?"

He carefully folds the cover back over on the folder he had been perusing. It's a hunt that he'll probably take, the victims have enough similarities for it to be more than random accidents. "My apologies, Mr. Dawkins is away this afternoon. Did you have a specific question regarding these agents?" As soon as Bobby thought that he might be capable enough of answering the phones and improvising quick enough lies to keep the system running smoothly, he'd coached him in how it should be done. The away message coming from a real person is always more effective than an answering machine and Cas' gravelly voice has something "official-sounding" about it that works even when he has to reject the caller.

"Yes, I have Mr. Perry and Mr. Fleischman here, they claim there's a problem with the hood on one of my ovens and that they're going to need to take it out of the ceiling to inspect?"

He doesn't need to recognize the names to know that he's speaking to someone who may or may not be standing next to Sam and Dean. There are only so many hunters who use Bobby as a home base, and there's always been a fairly real danger of the fact that this might occur. Cas doesn't know what to do with the information that Dean's in Newton, Indiana.

Though he's surprised that a very large part of him shrugs deep down inside and seems to have absolutely no interest in going to seek the hunter out.

"Yes. While I don't have the authority that Mr. Dawkins has on this particular matter, I would say that both inspectors are perfectly capable of making the necessary judgement call. Did you have any other concerns?"

The person on the other end answers in the negative, sounding somewhat reluctant as they hang up. Cas does not blame them for this, no one likes the idea of being duped or having to do something they do not wish to. He replaces the phone on the receiver and picks up the folder once more. He doesn't bother to leave a note for Bobby as he leaves, the hunter will notice on his own that he's been and gone. It's not of any particular importance.

* * *

><p>The case they're on in Newton gets off to a pretty shitty start. The initial diagnosis that what's going on in the little town is the result of a witch – or coven – leads them to the prissy head chef-slash-owner of a local gourmet restaurant who's unwilling to let them pull down the hood over one of her ovens. Where there are undoubtedly a number of hex bags stashed.<p>

Dean has half a mind to tell Sam that he thinks _she _might be one of the witches they're after as the woman talks to their "superior" on the phone. He's not sure what Bobby's saying, but it seems to be working.

"Mr. Dawkins wasn't there."

Dean's jaw drops. "Well, who the hell were you – "

"It must have been his assistant," Sam is quick to intercept, shooting Dean a glare that reminds him to stay in character. Health inspectors. Right. "Dave said he wasn't feeling well last time I spoke to him."

"Dave doesn't _have _an assistant," Dean growls once the woman is gone, leaving them to their business of ripping the huge steel hood out of the ceiling. It's probably more than a two-man job, but they get to work anyway, unscrewing the bolts and jerking it downwards. It's almost too heavy to be caught, but they manage to lower it to the ground without killing each other.

When they're done, Sam stretches out the muscles in his back, straightening. "Remember that guy that we used to do things with? The one with the wings and the trench coat – "

"What?"

"He hunts for Bobby now, you don't think he maybe answers the phone every once in a while, too?"

There's something about that idea that makes Dean's stomach churn unpleasantly. It's bad enough that Castiel's hunting again, but to be answering Bobby's phones too is such an utterly foreign concept. He can answer the phones but not give him a call every once in a while?

It's pretty clear that Cas doesn't need him at all anymore. If he ever did.

Yeah, there's something about this that Dean really doesn't like.

* * *

><p>The hunt goes as expected, passably well with no life-threatening injuries to speak of. Cas does find himself bandaging an ugly looking cut on his hip, but that's "par for the course" so to speak when dealing with a violent poltergeist. He's suffered worse and expects that there's even graver injuries he has yet to experience.<p>

Sliding under the sheets of his bed has never felt quite so good as after completing a successful hunt. It's something to live for, small though it might be. He's not necessarily happy, not necessarily _un_happy, either, but he's protecting people and giving them the opportunity to live another day and be happy themselves.

And there's nothing to scoff at about that.

The following morning is Tuesday which means that his shift doesn't begin until four-thirty. He had not been above returning to the restaurant and pleading his case, using words suggested by Bobby that he was going through a tough time in his life and needed a few weeks - months – off. Clearly, given the salt and the lamb's blood and the general panic and chaos that his antics caused.

He's fortunate that his work record up until his first ghost hunt had been so untarnished. They give him his old job back with minimal begging on his part and even set him to train the teenagers that cycle through in a never ending line of bored students looking for a few quick bucks. The job is not glamorous and most of them quit after only a few weeks of work, but Cas is content to teach sweeping and table sections. It's something to do and a way to pay off his credit card bill on time.

He does laundry before heading in to work. The shirts and pants that he's purchased for himself over the past few weeks pile up in a basket in the bathroom and by Tuesday it's usually at capacity. The laundromat had confused him immensely the first few times he'd stumbled in to clean up his clothing, but the realization that he can put in whatever colors or darks or whites that he wants as long as he uses cold water has sped up the process immensely. There isn't much color to bleed into his white dress shirts anyway.

The laundromat supervisor smiles at him as he enters with his basket. He's used to the smiles. Bobby's pointed out to him that women find him attractive, but he doesn't like to think about that. With the obvious exception of Dean, he has no interest or need for romance in his life.

Sandy pats him on the arm when he reports in for work, smiling as brightly as always. If he _were _interested in that kind of thing, she would be the first candidate, he supposes, though she is already involved with someone else.

"How are you doing, sweetie-pie?" Some days, Cas wonders if she even remembers his real name, though she must. He can't imagine that such an unusual name for a human is easily forgotten.

"Fine, thank you." He smiles at her and moves towards the back of the restaurant, getting ready to take his shift. She grins at him as he moves through the building, ever the cheerful waitress.

It's difficult to be as utterly morose as he would like to be with her around.

Tuesday evenings at the diner are not especially strenuous by any stretch of the word. There's maybe only four or five tables in use when he starts his shift, and the place doesn't get much fuller than that over the entire course of the evening. He spends most of the night hanging about the kitchen, speaking somewhat casually with both kitchen and wait staff. There's no new hiree to train tonight, so when he's not on his feet bussing the tables, he actually has the time to think to himself. And his thoughts are single-mindedly focused on his next hunt.

He's determined not to let Dean or the fact that he's in Newton, Indiana invade his thoughts. Nor the idea that he could very easily take the bus out there and track him down. If he thinks about it too hard there's the risk that he might actually do it and he's come so far since the last heartache, there's absolutely no sense in subjecting himself to it once again.

Instead, he thinks about where he'll go and what he'll do next. The obvious answer is Bobby's, but when the taxi drops him off on the hunter's doorstep, he has more than a hunt on his mind.

"Cas," Bobby greets perfunctorily. He's training a new pair of Dobermans as guard dogs for the salvage yard. The former angel never had the opportunity to encounter his previous animals, but he likes the pair of Dobermans just fine, though he makes a point of not petting them when they run up to greet him. He's already been yelled at for doing so, Bobby wants the dogs to _guard_, not to _play._

Cas thinks it's rather a shame to force the two animals to perform a task when their hearts are so clearly meant to be carefree.

"I've got a couple possible cases for you. One of 'em looks like it's a bust, but you might want to check it out anyway."

"I'd like you to teach me to drive."

Bobby hesitates, his hand stilling from where he's patting one of the Doberman's mangy heads, startled by the change in subject. "You want me to what?"

"Teach me to drive," he repeats. He's gotten used to Bobby's expressions of surprise. The repetition no longer confuses or annoys him as much as it once had.

"You want to learn to drive?"

"Yes."

Which is how Cas finds himself behind the wheel of a rundown Dodge Ram 150, the doors covered in rust from water damage and age. Bobby slides into the passenger's seat and, after giving him a cursory once over of the gas, the brakes, the gear shift and the steering wheel, has handed him the keys and buckled up his own seat belt.

Cas turns to look at him soberly as he takes the keys in hand.

"Well? Have at her."

The engine turns over quietly. For all that the car looks beat up on the outside, it's apparently in passable enough working order to still drive rather smoothly. Cas moves his hands from the ignition and over to the gear shift and steering wheel. With his right, he pulls the stick backwards into drive.  
>"There you go, now ease on the gas."<p>

His right foot slowly descends on the gas pedal and the car rolls gently forward. Encouraged, he gives it a little more and they move through the salvage yard.

Bobby watches, impressed, as he maneuvers his way through the junked cars of the yard with apparent ease. His driving is neat and clinical, perfect arcing turns and slow, controlled stops.

When he pulls the Dodge back into place where it had originally been parked, Bobby pats him on the shoulder. "What do you say we get you your very own fake license, Cas?"

He's pleased with his accomplishment and climbs out of the truck when Bobby does. Glancing down at it pensively. "How much money would I need to afford a car?"

"You can have this one if you want." Bobby smiles at him, though the warmth is hidden somewhere under the beard and wrinkles. "Not going to junk a machine that runs this well. May as well give her some room to drive."

He nods and pockets the keys. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Cas. It's not many that hunt as well as you do. It's a tough life, but it's appreciated by those who know how to appreciate it."

* * *

><p>"You got a car!" Sandy exclaims as he walks into the restaurant for his shift that evening. She's impressed and it shows in her voice.<p>

"Yes. A good friend of mine gave it to me."

"A good frie – " The waitress whistles, apparently even more impressed by this information than she'd been by the fact that Cas is driving now. "Must be some friend."

He shrugs, just a slight raise of his shoulders as he heads to the back of the restaurant. Yes, he would suppose that Bobby is quite a good friend now. The best that he has, anyway.

Driving to hunts is much easier now that he no longer needs to make use of a taxi. It's cheaper to get to and from Bobby's as well and Castiel appreciates Dodge for this alone. He has greater freedom of movement and although his first thought is to drive to Newton, Indiana, it's been almost a week since he answered that phone call and there's no telling whether or not Sam and Dean are even still there. He suspects that the answer is probably "no", which is the only thing holding him back.

The werewolf's head explodes in a spray of blood and gore from fifteen feet away. Cas lowers his smoking shotgun, satisfied as the beast crumples to the ground in death. It's his first werewolf hunt, but the kill's been successful and he's fairly pleased with the culmination of this particular job. The monster is dead, as it should be, and he's walking away completely unscathed, also as it should be.

He's the strongest he's ever been and while a small part of him says that _this_is the time to go to Dean, another part of him has found comfort in where he's at now. Job, people to talk to, home, hunting. He doesn't need Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester doesn't want him around anyway. Best not to dwell.

He toes at the werewolf with the edge of his boot and then leaves it.

The shotgun, he tosses into the passenger's seat of his truck as he climbs into the driver's seat himself. It hums gently to life as he heads for home. He's already got an additional hunt in mind, now that he's finished with this first one. Mysterious deaths out in Nebraska. Farmhands gutted in the fields, sounding like more than just a regular serial killer.

Castiel doesn't mind running up against the occasional psychotic human, though. He's disposed of enough of those in the past few months as a hunter as well. They're monsters themselves.

He could go home first, but it would be faster to simply take the car onto the highway and head for Eastland, Nebraska right now. Makes the most sense anyway, there's nothing that he needs from home before going.

The drive is long and tiring. He can appreciate now how tired Dean always seemed after driving for so long. Even two or three hours of watching the road soar past is enough to make his head start lolling. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open and focused on the road, but he has no desire to pull over except to stash the shotgun in a slightly less visible place under the seat should a state trooper pull him over.

It's happened already and Bobby was not especially impressed with the trouble it took to get him out of it.

The Nebraska state line looms up not quite quickly enough and Cas maneuvers his way through the winding highway towards Eastland. The houses quickly give way to small farms, landscape dotted with fields of wheat and corn. He has a few addresses of places where the killings occurred, but he's going to the most recent site now.

It's dark and something tells him that he should consider waiting for a few hours before knocking on any doors, but he wants to get this over with.

The woman who answers when he knocks on the farmhouse door looks less than impressed with his neat black suit than other people usually are and he wonders briefly why that is until she comments, dryly, "Another one of you? You feds are always sniffing around as soon as someone dies in some graphic, unfortunate way, aren't you? Just out to get something from our pain, huh?"

Another one?

Castiel's mind immediately flashes to Sam and Dean. Is it possible that they're here now? In Nebraska? Working the same case?

It seems like too much to be believed and yet entirely possible. He doesn't dwell, however, there's a job to be done.

"Dispatch wanted to put another agent on the case. It would appear that the previous two were not doing as thorough a job as expected."

"Well, come in, then." She holds the door open to let him in and he passes through, lead into a neat little farmhouse kitchen where he's directed to take a seat at the table. The information he receives here is not enough to convince him that this is anything more than another vengeful spirit, as is so frequent in the cases that he takes on. When the woman is finished sharing the local lore of the area, he nods to her and takes his leave. It's already quite late into the evening but that doesn't deter him from heading out.

The farmhands that have been gutted were all done so on farm properties within a ten mile radius of each other. The lay of the land means the farms all backed onto one another's properties in wedges and the unusual divide, as Cas has just learned, is a result of one particularly wealthy farm owner perishing in a field accident and having his property sloppily divided between his neighbors.

Those are the right words to pique his interest: farm accident, property divided up. A motive and an explanation.

He parks the Dodge at the side of the road alongside a wheat field and climbs carefully out of it. With him, he brings his shotgun and a couple fresh cartridges of rock salt, tucked carefully away in the pockets of his trench coat. Bobby would say he's rushing things, that he should get some sleep because his human body doesn't operate so well when fatigued, but Cas just sees something that is threatening others and while he's here and already awake, he may as well do the job he was meant to do.

He's too late.

Not knowing where exactly the ghost of the farmer is means Cas spends the better part of two hours wandering around the fields before he encounters the corpse. It's fresh, still a little warm. The stomach has been slit open cleanly across, spilling entrails out onto the fertile ground. He has no way of knowing for sure yet, but he'd think that the killing wound was made with a scythe of some sort. Wheat fields, farmer killed in an accident, scythes. It all makes sense to him, but as he's contemplating the corpse before him, a commotion off somewhere to his right draws his attention in that direction.

He rises to his feet and takes off, running towards the sounds, gun at the ready. The movement of running has always felt just a little clumsy to him. Maneuvering his human body quickly over any ground is something completely new to his understanding of his vessel, but when he realizes that one of those voices is distinctly familiar, he picks up speed, hurtling towards what can only be the ghost.

And Dean.

"Yeah, you fucker, come and get it."

He can hear the pain in Dean's voice long before he comes within sight of him and while that should give him some pause, it throws him into action. The wheat gives way to a bit of a clearing, clearly made by the fight that has just ensued. Dean is lying on his back in the field, a nasty looking gash on both his cheek and his right shin - the reason for his fall - while the ghost looms over him, expected scythe in hand.

Cas doesn't bother to wait and survey the scene any further. Dean's gun has been knocked out of his hands and is closer to the former angel now, but it's his own gun that he uses to blast through the ghost's chest, knocking the rock salt clear through. It's not enough to kill the ghost for good, but it keeps him off of Dean long enough for Cas to move forward and bend over the Winchester.

"Cas?" Dean's eyes are wide with confusion and it's quite clear that he's not his expected saviour. The former angel wonders vaguely what's happened to Sam.

"Yes," he nods, leaning over Dean's leg. He has some bandages in one of his pockets and he sets to pulling them out, wrapping the gash as best he can. "You should be sure to clean this out, it could get infected."

It's obvious that Dean's still not entirely up to speed with what's happening. "What are you doing?"

Cas tucks the end of the gauze in on itself, checking the white material to see if Dean's started to bleed through it yet. He hasn't, this is a good thing. "I'm wrapping your injured leg. I can put a bandage on your cheek as well, if you would like." He's already fishing through his trench coat pockets for one of the large square bandages he keeps for injuries like these.

"Woah, no, Cas, what are you _doing_?" One of Dean's hands is on his wrist, holding it still in place as he reaches out to smooth the bandage over the bloody gash on his cheek. "What are you doing here?"

The former angel blinks. "I'm hunting, Dean."

"No, no, I got that." He's sitting up a little straighter now, though Cas doesn't miss the way the movement jostles his leg a little and the small grimace of pain that mars his face, moving the tear on his cheek enough to spur another little wince. "I told you not to hunt anymore, Cas."

His eyes narrow as his conversation with Bobby from months ago comes back to mind. All of his celestial life he has taken orders from others, why now should he still have to take them from Dean Winchester? He has no right to expect that Cas will do as he says and the assumption only makes him angry.

"I didn't _want _to stop hunting."

Dean's face contorts into another grimace, this one having nothing to do with pain. "We can't always get what we want, Cas."

If his earlier revelation hadn't been enough to set him off, this is. Who is Dean to say that you cannot always have what you desire, when he himself wants Cas to stop hunting and expects to have precisely that? "Do you expect me to have _nothing _then?"

This seems to set the other hunter back a little. "What? What are you talking about, Cas?"

"You have _never_ asked me what I want. Whether I want to fight for you or fall for you." The argument would be a lot more dramatic were it taking place in one of their usual locations for arguing. An alley, Heaven's green room. Instead they're in the middle of a wheat field, Dean sitting on the ground and Cas standing over him, body shaking with fury, his voice suddenly hoarse. "You never asked if I wanted to be left on my own to deal with humanity, humanity I only have because I lost my Grace _for you_."

Dean doesn't respond, but there's hurt in his eyes and Cas feels a surge of satisfaction that he's managed to pierce through Dean's hard exterior, if only the tiniest bit.

"And now you ask me to stop doing the one thing I am capable of? What would you have me do, Dean?"

The Winchester's answer is spoken through gritted teeth as though it pains Dean as much to say it as it pains Cas to hear it. "Be _normal_." There's something there in those words, tantalizingly out of reach. Something that Cas just knows could blossom into something more if Dean would just _stay._

Dean pulls away first, as expected. "Cas – "

"No." The word comes out as a growl and Cas leans in, pressing his shoulder under one of Dean's arms and hoisting him upwards with it. "Where is the Impala?"

Still a little dazed, the other hunter gestures vaguely to their left, the opposite direction from which Cas had come. "That fucker'll be back."

"Yes. And I will take care of it. You need to get out of here."

Dean's jaw ticks. "I've taken down worse _with _worse, Cas. I don't need you to babysit. You're the one who needs to take a damn hike."

He doesn't bother to dignify this with a response, instead continuing forward, moving through the trail in the wheat field that he supposes Dean must have blazed on his way in. They move in silence, the bright light of the moon illuminating the way overhead. "Where is Sam? Will you be able to drive?"

"He's around. I was watching one of the farmhands, came out here, he's burning the bones."

Cas pauses a moment to adjust his hold on Dean. "I hate to inform you that you did not do a very good job protecting him."

"No shit, dude ran right into Old MacDonald as I as catching up to him. Nearly got us both killed, obviously."

The former angel doesn't respond to this. Up ahead, he can see the Impala parked at the very edge of the wheat field, moonlight glistening off of its dark curves. They're almost there when the ghost in question makes a reappearance, blocking their way. He is about to drop Dean and raise his gun once more when the ghost explodes into a blast of flames, licking their way up its body from his feet up. Sam must have been successful in locating and destroying the corpse, then.

Dean sags against his arm and Cas figures that it's in relief until he notices that Dean's unconscious. Unfortunate, but it'll make leaving him behind easier.

Balancing him against his shoulder and side, he manages to pull open the door to the backseat of the Impala and gently shuffle Dean's limp body onto the seat. His leg, he lifts up, making sure that it's balanced on one of the backpacks in the car, keeping it elevated. The wound must have been worse than it looked to knock Dean out, but Castiel notes with concern that the gash is starting to bleed through the gauze.

There's nothing he can do about it now, though. Not without sticking around to rebandage the wound and apply pressure until Sam returns. But if he's going to leave, he needs to do it _now _while Dean's unconscious.

Because he knows now that that's what he's going to do. He can't stay with Dean, not after everything Dean's done to him, after everything that Dean seems to expect and _demand_ of him. If he waits around long enough for the Winchester to regain consciousness, then Dean will only push him away and this time it's Castiel's turn. It has to be _his _decision to leave Dean and not the other way around.

The happiness that he thought being with Dean would bring just isn't there. Instead, he's angry, annoyed and hurting almost as much as he had been when Dean first left him. No, he can't stay. He'll go home to his apartment, to his life at the restaurant, to hunting alone.

He doesn't need Dean.

The realization is biting, but not enough to keep him from leaning down and boldly pressing a familiar kiss to the hunter's temple. He doesn't need him, but that doesn't mean he can't still love him. He is still the same man that he rebelled for, that he fell for. The same man who has his mark seared into his shoulder.

No, he will always love Dean. But you can love someone from a distance and that is what he intends to do.

As he walks away from the Impala, he notices Sam picking his way back to the car and doesn't call out to him. Part of him is glad that Sam has returned, as it means Dean will receive the medical attention he needs sooner rather than later, though Castiel is pretty sure that the injury is not a life-threatening one.

He picks his own way back to the Dodge, path illuminated by the light of the moon, even though his vision swims a little with the tears that threaten to begin falling. He won't cry. This is how things are meant to be.

* * *

><p>"Dean! Dean, wake up."<p>

There's someone slapping at his face when Dean groggily opens his eyes and it's not an entirely pleasant feeling. He swats at whoever it is leaning over him, arm moving sluggishly through the air.

"Dean, you're wrecked, man." Sam, then. Has to be Sam. For some reason that doesn't quite sit right, he's pretty sure Sam's not the one who was last to hover over him. "How did you manage to get yourself into the Impala like this?"

In the Impala? The world, which he hadn't realized until now has been dutifully spinning around him, suddenly tilts back into place and Dean knows – _knows _– that this is not where he got knocked out. He's pretty sure that happened back somewhere in the cornfield and if Sam's not the one who dragged his ass back here -

Cas.

As Sam helps get him settled in the backseat, Dean's mind is racing through what he can remember about the fight before he'd dropped and his memory is pretty insistent on the idea that Cas was there somehow.

Well, fuck him. Dean's the one who gets to walk away, not Cas.

Not Cas.

Dean follows him.

Cas is not sure why he's so surprised by this. It's not as though Dean wouldn't know where to find him.

It takes at least two or three days for the tailing to start, and maybe one or two more before he really begins to notice, but how could he not?

While he's not keen on sitting around watching the world through his window anymore, he's pretty much used to experiencing it now, it's hard to miss the black car that passes by the street once or twice a day. Particularly when it's a car he's so familiar with, one that he's spent hours sitting in, the very car that more or less stopped Lucifer and ended the apocalypse.

It's not just the presence of the Impala that tips him off, though. He thinks he actually sees Dean out of the corner of his eye as he walks to the restaurant every afternoon. Once, he's pretty sure that Dean walks by the 24-Mart three times as he does his shopping for the week. Part of him says that it's wishful thinking, that it's both selfish and stupid of him to think that Dean would suddenly care enough to actually spend such a large portion of his day keeping an eye on the former angel.

His suspicions are confirmed, however, the first time he visits Bobby after the hunt with the farmer ghost.

The hunter greets him as warmly as always, which is to say not all that affectionately, but there's a broad smile on his face when he informs Cas that he "doesn't know what you've been up to, but you've got Dean Winchester on your tail and pining something awful."

He's not entirely sure how to digest these words and settles on looking at Bobby inquisitively.

"The boy's crashing here and while he ain't said nothing about where he's going all day, I'm pretty sure you and me both know what he's up to."

Cas glances over towards the staircase, but Bobby shakes his head.

"No, he's not here. But I bet he'll show up any time now, follow you right here himself."

It seems too good to be true, until Cas rationalizes that he's only doing it because he's concerned that he's still hunting. Which ruins the light feeling that knowing Dean cares where he is has been filling him for the past week. Yes, he just wants to make sure that Cas stops hunting. That's all that it is.

Well, he's in for disappointment. "Do you have a hunt for me?"

Bobby seems reluctant to answer this and Cas understands why as soon as the hunter opens his mouth. "Not a one. No whisperings or nothing all week. Haven't heard a thing."

He has his suspicions that Dean's been here and put Bobby up to this, but he doesn't voice them. He's been relying on Bobby for too long anyway, it's time for him to find his own hunts. "You're certain?"

The hunter nods, then attempts a smile. "It's a good thing, isn't it, Cas? No hunts means no monsters, means no innocent people getting hurt."

"Yes. _That_'s what it means."

* * *

><p>That afternoon, he has an hour or two at home after visiting with Bobby to burn before heading in for his shift at the restaurant. It's Friday again, another Friday night rush looms on the horizon, which Cas doesn't mind very much. He likes having the work to do, especially now that he has so much to think about what with Dean trailing every step he takes. Part of him thinks he should just confront the Winchester, find out why he's so keen to know where he is every moment of every day.<p>

Part of him wonders if perhaps there's a demon on his tail as well. He'd been somewhat surprised to find that once he was rendered human, no one seemed to care about him in the slightest. No angels came by to visit, no demons came by to torture Heaven's secrets out of him. It's like Castiel fell and no one noticed.

Not even the Winchesters, apparently.

He catches sight of the Impala passing on the street below twice, and both times by accident. He happened to be glancing out the window when it sailed past and if he hadn't been, he would not have noticed it. It's easy to assume that Dean had also driven past once or twice prior to and Cas had just missed it.

He ignores the sight, however. If Dean wants to waste gasoline doing circles around his apartment, that's fine with him. He's made his decision just as surely as Dean had. And Cas is not going to be the one to seek him out again. If Dean wants to talk, he clearly knows where he is.

Though he does feel better knowing that Dean's out there somewhere, thinking about him. It's a nice thought.

It's not until he shows up for work and realizes that Dean's shown up at the restaurant as well that Cas knows he needs to confront the hunter. Following him around is one thing, but getting involved in his life is another. Sandy's eyes are wide when she comes to him after showing Dean to his seat and taking his order for a bacon cheeseburger, clearly she's interested and while Cas can't fault her, as he himself loves Dean, he feels both a twinge of very-human jealousy and irritation.

"Do you _know _him, sugar? He says he knows you."

He holds back his annoyance. It's not Sandy that he's angry with, it's Dean and his petulance. "Yes. He used to be a very close friend of mine."

"Well, if I was ever a close friend with _that_, I wouldn't let it turn into a 'used to be.'"

He doesn't answer, instead heading off into the opposite direction to bus a recently deserted table, trying to ignore the fact that Dean's eyes follow him as he clears the used plates and gives the tabletop a cursory wipe down. It feels like the hunter is judging him and Cas doesn't much care for that particular feeling.

Once he's finished with the table and moved all of the cleared plates back to the dishwashing station, he makes up his mind to finally confront Dean.

He walks right up to the table and plants himself in front of the hunter, annoyed expression probably marred by the fact that he's wearing an apron, but he's angry and he's tired of Dean following him without making any attempt to communicate.

"Dean – " He begins, his voice a mottled growl as he stands over the table where Dean's sitting.

But whatever he's about to say next is broken by the piercing shriek that comes from the kitchen. Both hunters are – in Dean's case – on their feet and headed in that direction immediately, Cas with his apron ties flapping behind him as he speeds towards the door, Dean following on his heels.

The kitchen is in absolute chaos and the reason why is painfully obvious.

Sandy's lying on the ground, surrounded by a circle of wait staff and cooks, her face has been slashed and there's blood absolutely everywhere.

Cas' first instinct to help is overridden by his need to find out the cause of the problem and fight back. He turns to one of the young bus boys he's been training this week. "What happened?"

The boy, Damien, he recalls, stares at him with a pale, freckled face. "She went out for a second to have a smoke outside, next thing I knew she was in here, bleeding all over the place in the middle of the Friday rush!"

The Friday rush. The words bring up some fuzzy memory of Castiel's and immediately the pieces click into place. He reaches out to place a hand on Dean's arm, nodding his head towards the door. It's with an easy familiarity borne of the two years they fought at each other's sides, that they move swiftly out to the alley behind the restaurant, where the dumpsters loom up in the early evening.

"What is it?" Dean asks, not referring to the problem, but to the monster.

"A ghost," Castiel answers brusquely, eyes sharp on the space between the two dumpsters. He should have known, should have thought about it. He's just lucky that after months of Friday rushes since his first exorcism, no one's come out in time for this to happen. Not until now, when both he and Dean are on hand to fight it.

"And you didn't kill it when you had the chance?"

Castiel seethes at this. It feels too much like Dean questioning his ability. Which, he is. "I haven't _had_ the chance. I didn't realize. There must have been two of them, a girl and... and whatever killed her." It's clear now, what had happened. The way the young woman had rushed him when he came out with the garbage hadn't been about hurting him, it had been about forcing him back inside, keeping him away from whatever was going to follow, whatever had killed _her_.

Which, it turns out, is a pretty pissed-off looking poltergeist.

Neither of them has their guns on hand, Dean not even carrying his small .45 in some hidden holster. This fact is surprising to Cas, but he doesn't question it as the ghost moves closer, wielding a particularly lethal looking blade. Dean looks ready to spring into action, gun or no, but he doesn't have Cas' speed and it's the former angel that leaps into the path of the knife, sweeping out with a hand to dissipate the ghost.

When it's gone, Dean stares at him in awe. "You chowing down on the demon juice, too, Cas?"

He peers at him in confusion for a moment, then realizes what he's getting at and holds out his hand.

Dean examines the iron ring that encircles his ring finger, impressed, but the moment doesn't last for long. They both know that the ghost will be back and it's only a matter of time before it returns, angrier than it had been initially.

"Do you know where it's buried?"

Regrettably, the answer to that is no. Cas doesn't even know who this particular ghost is, other than that he's more than likely responsible for Julie-Anne Thoreau's death. He could be anyone, buried anywhere and that's not going to help them now. There's no time.

"We can try to snap them out of it," Dean tries, though it's clear he himself doesn't really believe in the suggestion. It's one thing to assist a lost soul in finding the light, but when they begin to turn violent, it's usually because they are fully aware that they are deceased.

"No. We'll have to exorcise it."

Dean looks up at him, clearly startled, but Cas' mind is already made up. It's how he got rid of Julie-Anne, it's how he'll rid them of this monster now.

With the continuing commotion in the kitchen, it's as easy now as it had been the first time for Cas to gather the necessary things for performing the exorcism, though he does it as quickly as he is capable. The lamb's blood he collects in a bowl from the freezer and he charges Dean with gathering the salt needed to replace the chalk lines.

When they meet back up behind the restaurant, their disappearance is scarcely noticed by the panicked people inside, frantically awaiting an ambulance.

The salt circle that Cas makes on the pavement is the fastest one he's ever drawn in his lifetime, either as an angel or as a human. And the accompanying Enochian words are just as quick. Dean watches in slight awe as he lines the salt with the lamb's blood and steps back, unenclosed by the salt circle to wait.

They don't have to wait long.

When the ghost returns, it's within two inches of Dean and were it not for years of training, Cas would have watched the man's knife sink in somewhere deep in the other hunter's side. As it is, he manages to twist away, narrowly escaping the edge of the blade.

"I need him in the circle," Cas calls back to him and Dean nods, struggling with the ghost, wrestling him forwards all the while still trying to avoid the knife. He manages after a moment or two of desperate grappling and the incantation slips from Cas' lips just as an ambulance comes roaring into the back parking lot.

Under the flashing emergency lights, the ghost dissipates into a blur of smoke and the pair of hunters stand alone, both streaked with blood, for once not their own. The paramedics leap out of the back of the ambulance and rush for the back door of the diner as Dean grabs Cas' waist and leans in to claim his lips with his own.

The roar of both the sirens and the blood pounding through his ears as the adrenaline of the fight wears off has Castiel's legs turning wobbly – or maybe that's just the kiss. Either way, he likes it, and leans in to Dean's grip, hands moving to palm his back, sliding over the creased leather of his coat.

He can't leave now.

* * *

><p>"Here." Castiel brings a new roll of gauze into the bedroom with him on his way back from the bathroom. At some point during the fight with the poltergeist, the gash on Dean's leg had reopened. To be honest, Cas had forgotten it was even there, but looking at the torn skin now makes him feel foolish for not remembering.<p>

"Thanks." Dean rolls his pant leg up higher and takes the gauze, wrapping it around the leg himself. Blood shows through the first two or three layers, but by the time he's used the whole roll, the gauze around his shin looks white and clean.

"Thank you for your assistance today." Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, next to Dean, rolling up his own pant leg to examine his still slightly swollen ankle. Bobby had said it looked like he tore the ligament off of the bone and would take two or three months to heal. It doesn't hurt so much anymore, but it still looks quite tender.

"Well, we're a pair, aren't we."

Cas nods, but asks the question that's been burning inside him since riding back to his apartment in Dean's Impala. "Why were you following me?"

He shrugs, but the former angel senses the embarrassment that the question creates. "You mentioned that I never asked what you wanted. I figured I'd take a look and see what all the fuss was about."

Now it's Cas' turn to flush, Dean really has been scoping out his life. "Did you figure it out?"

"Yeah. You've done good, Cas. Got a real life and managed to balance it with hunting. Like Bobby. It's not something Sam or I ever managed."

"I believe it's because for you and Sam, this is real life."

Dean is quiet for a moment, lying back against the bed. "Something like that, I guess. I mean, you grow up on the road, you go to hell, somewhere in the middle there you lose touch with reality."

"It can be found again." Castiel nods down at him. After all, if he, a fallen angel, can find a balance between normalcy and the supernatural, Dean certainly must have some sort of chance to do so for himself. Perhaps he simply needs Castiel's help to figure it out.

"So... what happens now?"

Castiel considers. "We're in my home. I'm not going anywhere. I believe the decision falls on you now, Dean."

It's Dean's turn to consider and he does, looking away from the former angel for a moment. It must be difficult, Cas thinks, for Dean to have the entire weight of the decision on his shoulders. "I didn't like it when you were the one to walk away from me, Cas."

"I didn't especially care for it when you were the one to do so either, Dean. Both times."

"Yeah, I guess you got me there. So, what do you want, Cas? Do you want me to stay or go?"

Castiel shifts himself so that he's sitting closer to Dean's side, and lies back, stretching himself along the length of Dean's body. "I appreciate you asking."

Dean doesn't move, his body is stiff, tense, like he's worried that too sudden a movement might frighten Castiel away.

"I don't know that I've ever or will ever forgive you for leaving me." It's honest. While he made peace with the idea ages ago, forgiveness is not so easily found. "But not even that ever made me stop loving you, Dean."

"You – I – right." The other hunter's eyes go wide suddenly, almost incredulous. "You... you love me. Okay."

Oh. Castiel's never said that aloud before, has he?

"I believe there is a human adage that says 'absence makes the heart grow fonder,' is there not?"

Dean nods brusquely and Castiel feels the movement against the top of his head more than he sees it for himself. "I guess that kinda explains the way I'm feeling now, huh?"

* * *

><p>The next morning, it's Dean who wakes to an empty bed. He won't lie, there's a certain amount of panic involved in waking to find that the languid former angel he'd fallen asleep next to is no longer there and the sheets have long since turned cold. But there's a note – thank, God, a note! – pinned to the fridge that says Castiel had to go in for an early shift at work.<p>

An early shift.

At work.

It's practically a foreign concept to Dean, but he pulls on the pants he was wearing yesterday and his jacket and heads down the street. It's chilly outside, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets as he moves along the sidewalk, past the 24-Mart he's seen Castiel frequent so many times during his week of reconnaissance, and up to the restaurant.

The waitress from the night before is there, a thin bandage across her face. Apparently the wound was superficial enough to not garner a day off from work. Or the chick just _really_needs the money.

Her eyes light up in recognition as she shows him to his seat and almost before she walks away with his order, Castiel is in front of him, apron once more tied in place. Dean doesn't think he's ever going to get used to seeing Castiel in his "uniform," but that doesn't mean he's not going to appreciate it all the same.

"Dean." Castiel's grave voice is questioning and Dean immediately knows why. He's trying to determine if the hunter is here for a goodbye or something else. "Are you – have you decided if – "

Dean shrugs and smiles, rising to his feet to kiss Castiel's cheek. "I've never dated a busboy before."

"Dean." Castiel's tone is serious now, and Dean has the sudden sense that he's about to get a speech. He's not wrong. "I don't know that I can trust you not to leave again. In reality, I should... I really should tell you to go about your way. I don't need you anymore. I can stand on my own feet with or without your help. This is not a second chance, it's a third and I don't know if you deserve it anymore."

The words are a little bit crushing, but Dean understands. He's been a dick to Cas and walking back into his life and just _deciding_he wants to stay there is selfish and well, dick-ish. "No, you don't need me, Cas." He can't believe he's saying it, can't believe he's putting the decision back in Castiel's hands, but he knows that's where it should have always been. Angel or not, Castiel's always been a good friend and Dean knows he's very rarely – if ever – treated him like one.

It's not fair, and so he expects Castiel to reject him.

When he's ready to look up, it's to see the former angel staring down at him with the same intensity he'd had even with his Grace. "No, Dean. I don't need you."

Dean's heart falls impossibly far into his stomach.

"But I want you."

There is a long pause then Dean claps a hand down on Castiel's shoulder. "So, what time did you say you get off at?"


End file.
